The Little Black Dress Of Joy Part 3. free porn video

The Little Black Dress of Joy. By Tanya H. Part Three. Coming Out. Next morning, as typical Lakeland rain beat on our bedroom windows, I lay nursing a vague headache and counting heartbeats between Nina's gentle snoring. I hadn't changed any more, for better or worse; my hand lay cupping my new sex protectively as though somebody was going to run off with it. Under my hand was a perfectly ordinary arrangement of labia, inner and outer, with clitoris forming a pretty vulva. Beyond, inside, was the vagina Nina had thoroughly explored which led me to consider that at the head of my vagina was a cervix, beyond that a womb and then after the required lengths of tubing, ovaries that might once have been my balls. Having previously assumed that my best possible outcome was a surgically created vagina, the notion of having been gifted a working set of woman's reproductive organs felt a little surreal - a dream I must surely wake from anytime soon. The crushing disappointment when I did would be horrible. When I had to extract myself from Nina's sleepy embrace and tip-toe to the loo for a very long and satisfying pee, I found a day's worth of bristles rasping over my chin. A few more, instant changes were obviously too much to hope for. Rubbing a hand over my tummy, over the spot where I supposed my womb might be, I wished my ovaries well with their oestrogen production. Going through a lengthy female puberty was going to be interesting, if frustratingly slow. After olympic sized breakfasts we walked through the day's drizzle, hand in hand - we kissed often and even through the rain it all felt perfect. On Monday morning, at a time Nina described as 'sparrow's fart', she kissed me goodbye and headed over the Pennines back to her regiment ready for her working week. With the assurance that Nina would only be a phone call away it was time to take control of my life, or more precisely to show the world what my life was going to look like. The first step was to find Mary-Ann, the senior nurse in our unit and my boss. A blunt, whip of a woman with unblinking grey eyes and blistering lack of patience with time-wasters and laziness, I'd enjoyed working for her once I'd got over the walking-on-eggshells nervousness around her reputation. I must have been assessed as neither time-wasting nor lazy as I got on well with her. However, my usual policy of not bringing any problems to her door, that I hadn't already found solutions for, was about to be broken. From behind her desk she turned her steely eyes on me and arched her eyebrows. I almost turned and left her to it, but this moment had to be had; I'd gain nothing by putting it off. Take a deep breath, Pippa - you can do this, you've been rehearsing. Mary-Ann stared at me. I felt like a mouse under the gaze of a lip licking cat. 'I've been thinking a lot of late.' She inclined her head encouragingly. "About being who I should be, living as myself; not living a lie." I looked at my knees, traced the seam of my trouser pockets as I finally said, "I'm a woman and I won't deny myself any more." There was quiet for a moment during which a pan fell with a harsh clatter somewhere on the ward. Perfect timing. Mary-Ann's expression didn't change; she looked ready to pounce. "Jesus!" she snapped. "Why would you want to go and do that!" Which hadn't been the cool, professional reaction I'd expected when I'd gone through the carefully rehearsed lines for this encounter. Before I could answer she started again. "Jesus! Being a woman isn't what you think it might be. I mean it's bad enough getting home from here to find the boys demanding every minute of my time and when I do get a moment to myself there's Mr George trying to clamber all over me and smooching for some conjugal unpleasantness, but society is stacked against us. You need to think this through, Phillip - there are masses of rubbish cultural and social expectations and general shite about being a woman.' She frowned suddenly. 'Or is it Phillippa now?' I managed to open my mouth, but she dismissed whatever I was about to say with a confident wave of her hand. "Don't go having any of your bloke bits off before you've had a good long think, Phillippa; hormone therapy can be reversed, but surgery - they never grow back! The grass is not greener on the other side, no way - there isn't much grass at all!" "I have thought-" "Well, what'll you need from me? We'll have to have plans, for the other staff and the bosses and HR. There'll be a policy at head office I'm sure. Personal first for me in 12 years nursing, I'm sure we can wing it together. What do you think?" "I had thought of Pippa..." "Lord, no!" she snapped, as though I had suggested calling myself Imelda or Drusilla or something. "I was given a doll called Pippa when I was a wee girl; awful skinny thing - never trust a woman with no bust. Like me," she finished. "You're my boss, I have to trust you." She watched me for a moment, maybe wondering if I was going to start dabbing on some lipstick or something. "It's a hard road you're choosing for yourself here, Pippa," she said softly. "A hard, rocky path. You're sure?" "Positive." The decision had been made for me, I didn't want my wonderful vagina to go away. "Well, what an adventure we'll have. I suppose you'll be wanting a dress ordered? If you want my advice, leave dresses for summer and nights out - not work. I don't suppose you'll take my word for it, but it has taken almost a billion years to convince society that trousers are a better nursing rig. I suppose you'll need to discover that for yourself. What size would you like?" "I'd rather stay in trousers and a tunic." As much as the idea of being able to come to work and wear a dress appealed superficially I was on the same page as Mary-Ann when it came to practicality. Only one or two of the unit's nurses still chose dresses. "Good call. Okay..." She steepled her fingers and looked at me a moment or two. "How do you want to tell the staff? You may get a little push back, I can think of a couple of names, but I can't see any dramas - policy will see them off. An email perhaps? I think that would be easier than springing it to them at a staff meeting." It was a grim feeling that some of my colleagues, I got along well enough with everyone there, should push back - as though any of this was their business; as though my gender would change our professional relationship. I'd been trying to work out who might give me grief, but nobody came to mind and I didn't like to ask Mary-Ann who she'd put onto her list. Some of the people on the unit, patients included, already thought me a little odd for being a male nurse. All I was going to do was conform to their ancient stereotyping. Like anybody would see it like that! I started with a group email, to all the staff at the unit, composed with the assistance of Mary-Ann and Sian, a cheerful lady from the regional HR who knew company policy inside out. In the email I kept it personal and warm, asked for understanding and patience while giving permission for any of them to ask me about the choice I'd made. I sent it last thing on the Friday, stewed over the weekend and crept into work the following Monday as though I was under investigation for some critical, clinical error. Some of my colleagues hadn't read their emails, of those that had a couple offered their support, one or two said nothing and life went on. On Wednesday, after many forms had been filled in, Mary-Ann presented me with a name badge with Staff Nurse Pippa Allan written across it. "I'm a woman," I messaged Nina that night, with a selfie of me and my new badge. She rang back immediately to offer her congratulations. I didn't act differently, dress differently or do anything other than what I did. Most people were a little reserved around me at first, but I'd been braced for that, adopted my best, brave face and carried on. Mary-Ann disclosed she'd received one complaint about my using the women's toilets and changing rooms - I had almost baulked at the idea and found myself drinking less to avoid using the toilets and for the first few weeks I used the staff disabled toilet to get changed. That complainant had been referred to the company policy affirming me access to those spaces. Both the toilets and locker rooms had individual cubicles so it wasn't like I was properly invading some foreign land. Perhaps that complainer would have been reassured if they had seen my altered body; perhaps not. That person outed themself a week later when she found a quiet moment to corner and lecture me on how things really were. "You'll know, you'll never be a woman. You aren't a woman, you can't be a woman." She said it quite conversationally, Rochelle Barker - one of the theatre nurses who had always been friendly. "I didn't think you would be the one," I replied, equally mild. We could have been discussing the weather, but I had been building up to this, rehearsing it. Even so, an ugly tension knotted my shoulders and clawed my fingers. "The whole idea is ridiculous." "Well, thank you for your input, Rochelle. I'll file it under, 'irrelevant'." "Biology's real, Phillip," she said to my back as I started to walk away. "Whatever policy says." "When did we go back to defining a person using only that? Society's moved on, thankfully, try to keep up." She kept her disapproval low key; dead-naming, misgendering and the like, always out of earshot of anybody else. I took it all sweetly enough, there wasn't much point in anything else. One day I did bite though. "I get your opinion, I really do, but all this 'he' and 'him', 'Phillip this' and 'Phillip that', that's just mean - rude, Rochelle. I honestly thought you were above that kind of pettiness." She didn't have an answer for that and just made the 'biology's real' assertion again. "Of course it is. But humanity's been doing clever stuff to fix other real bits of biology - cancer, heart defects, any number of organ transplants. Medicine? Hospitals? The operating theatre you work in?" "You don't fool me. I know what it's really about," she said with a haughty sniff and walked off, her nose in the air. I wondered what she thought it was really about; clothes, being so attracted to women you decided you must become one, to gain access to women's (lesbians') bodies, to colonise women's spaces? I read all these theories and any number of hateful, hurtful, close-minded comments across cyberspace and wished people would just open their eyes and see for themselves. I tried to ignore all that, to just get on and smile brightly through the sudden silences when I walked into a room, or the looks, the sudden chopping dead of a sentence in mid-flow as though I'd twist something innocent into offence, but it was hard. It felt personal - an attack on me, the choice I'd made to be the best me I could. There is, of course, more to transitioning from one gender to the other than work relationships. However, family wasn't so much a problem; I couldn't imagine Dad or Samantha would have had anything other than the deepest contempt for me and Aunt Fiona, who had at least been warm and maternal, had been killed in a car crash while travelling Route 66 in America. That didn't leave many people to tell and I realised what a quiet life I'd been leading. Reactions from my friends and acquaintances in the town's squash and tennis circles generally ranged from surprise to indifference, with occasional spikes of ignorance. I suppose I was lucky in that gender changes weren't so outlandish as they had once been - I can't imagine what Spitfire pilot Roberta Cowell endured when she came out after the war. One of the tennis club committee members, a fearsome woman who'd been there for generations suggested, in the kind of tone that made it quite clear it was actually an instruction, that I should leave. At least she said it to my face, which said more about her cast-iron certainty in her own outdated beliefs than her integrity. "On what grounds?" I asked, conversationally, despite the anger seething inside. "I would have thought it obvious," she said. "You'd better spell it out." "If you insist. I don't think you're a suitable person to be coaching the juniors." I thought I kept control of myself quite well, even finding a tight, cheerless smile for the old bag. Part of me thought it would have been easier to slink away from my old life, not to cause a fuss or any ill- feeling, but the more dominant part decided to stay. Firstly, it wasn't my old life - just my life, going along. Secondly, I enjoyed tennis, I played well; I'd become a good coach - with kids or adults. I still had people asking for lessons with me, even though I'd asked to be called Pippa. "I'm the same person I was, is that so hard to understand? Have I breached any club policy? Have I failed my DBS check? Have any parents or club members made any complaints? Have I not carried out my duties diligently, Bella?" "That's hardly the point." "I'll take that as a no. And it's exactly the point. Is this more about your own prejudices?" "The committee feels..." "The committee? If they'd like to explain, in writing, their reasons for asking me to leave then I will make a structured reply." Haters gonna hate, but club and national tennis policies were clear. Bella left the club, two other players went with her, and presumably made barbed comments at whatever tennis club they went to, but I stayed. The support from the remainder of the committee gave me a warm feeling, some members even wished me well - I suppose I'd got myself so prepared for negative reactions I hardly thought that to most people I was a subject of gossip, but nothing more than that - they didn't really care. I got some funny looks at the squash club, even a little banter from some of the lads, but nothing barbed; much of it spilled over from curiosity and plain incomprehension. Most of the blokes there couldn't wrap their head around why a card-carrying member of the male club would ever want to swap to the female branch. What were the benefits? A lot of it came from the tired misinterpretation that changing my gender was bound inseperably with sex and fetishism. Six weeks after I'd come out Nina decided we were going camping for the weekend. In her usual blitzkrieg style she'd whooshed out of nowhere on Friday, scooped me into her truck and drove for the motorway at full speed, refusing to say where we were going until I'd decided it must be Snowdonia. "Look at what you missed over the last three weeks," I said, lifting my t-shirt and twisting towards her. Nina howled in mock outrage, pretended to lose control of her truck and finally laughed. "Been a while since a girlfriend flashed her boobs at me while I was driving," she admitted when I had covered them. "Did it happen very often?" "Couple of girls I went out with were very proud of their beautiful boobies." As you might have realised, I'd grown very proud of mine, even though I didn't yet have anything more than stiff little breast buds, just starting to show through my usual clothing. Their arrival had been announced with itching, sore nipples and puffed up aureoles, adding to the highs I'd been riding thanks to my home-grown oestrogen. Even this slight change added to my excitement, showing the rest of my body was going to change to match my magic pussy, the mere presence of which still had the power to make me smile. More tangible evidence that I was more of a woman than most would realise had come the week before. Typically enough I got my first period while Nina had been on a military exercise in Scotland. Her troop had supposedly been adventure training up there, but it sounded like the drinking and subsequent hangovers hadn't left much room for any actual hill-walking and rock climbing. The messaged conversation between the two of us went something like this; Me: My period started! Nina: Whoop whoop. I had imagined the cycle would have taken more than five weeks to get going, from its magical start. The belly cramps had coincided with a curry a couple of the squash lads invited me to so I'd foolishly written off the discomfort as tikka masala related. Fortunately I knew where we kept the emergency supply on the ward and had vanished into the loo to learn the joys of sticking your pubic hair to the adhesive backing on sanitary towels. I can't say I enjoyed it, but my first one wasn't very long, just a couple of days, but it did give me the chance to look at myself in the mirror and think, 'There you are, Pippa - biology's real!" Nina: Make sure you keep tampons in your handbag. Me: How am I going to explain that if somebody sees them in there? Nina: Fuck 'em. That's my girl. Me: I'm saving myself for you. Before we set up camp near Snowdon's base, she'd handed over a small, gift wrapped box and grinned as I opened it to find two, very delicate lace bralettes; one in a dusky pink, the other black. "It'll be ages before you have proper boobs and become a slave to the bra, but these'll do for now," she said. Of course I kissed her. Then, after checking nobody could see, I shrugged off my top and felt the sun on my skin as I shimmied into the pink bralette. It didn't make the slightest bit of difference to my buds, but I'd taken another step and Nina had bought them so I resolved to wear one every single day until I needed a proper bra. Once I was decent again, she produced another gift, this one a small black jewellery box containing a very pretty, heart shaped pendant in gold on a fine chain. Amongst all the feminine things I had bought myself over the years, even That Dress, the necklace felt the best when Nina fastened it into place for me. After the camp was built, and with the day fading we walked for about fifteen minutes to a secluded, rocky perch giving us a fabulous view over the Irish Sea under a gorgeous evening sky. We lay contentedly quiet, enjoying the peace and companionship until Nina kicked me playfully. "How are your teeny, tiny, titties?" she asked, supportively. "Feeling their teeny, tiny bounces in their teeny bralette makes me smile." "I feel your joy. I couldn't wait to get mine - as the shortest girl in my class I was also the slowest to go into bras. Mum always said, 'be careful what you wish for, girl' but she could make four of mine from one of hers." "Has that skipped a generation?" "I fear for my daughters." We lay wrapped in a companionable silence for another minute or two, before I felt her boot nudging my leg again. "Decided what kind of girl you're going to be yet?" "What do you mean?" "You know, what kind of girl is Pippa? I mean, from those phots you took in that dress, I thought you'd have been trying your legs in skirts all the time and I'd need a trailer for all the make-up when we go away." I heard the gentle smiles in her tones as she spoke, so I knew she meant nothing, but those universal, misunderstood assumptions about the transwoman experience did play on my mind when I dressed each day. Even though I'd menstruated and made my own oestrogen I remained transgendered in my eyes and the eyes of those around me. The fear of confirming blind stereotypes bothered me every day. "Is it the haters?" she whispered and her fingers brushed my cheek. "Pippa is going to be Pippa's kind of girl," I said. "I'm not going to be any kind of girl. I'm going to draw my inspiration from the women around me. Hearing movement, I looked to see she had rolled onto her side, surely uncomfortable on our rocky bed, so she could see me. Her hand came to rest on my chest, fingertips fondly resting on one of my breast buds. Holding her eye, I said, "I'm inspired by class, style, sass and sparkle." She looked away, colour rising in her cheeks. "And I'm still worried people will just look at me and say, 'man in a dress'." Before she could make her usual retort to that kind of comment I shushed her with a finger to her lips. "I'm not quite as sassy as you." Her head tilted. "You know, Pippa, You are a woman; you look like a woman, you sound like a woman." Another gentle squeeze and thumb sweep over my nipple, "You feel like a woman." A warm breath over my neck led the way for a long kiss that left me breathless as her right hand left my breast and dropped boldly to my tummy, then lower over my trousers until her longest finger laid comfortably along the line of my tingling labia - as though we were comfortably in our bed, not stretched out in public. "You taste like a woman." Then she stopped, rather frustrating! Before I could protest she'd turned my head and made me face her. Nina's eyes shone; wide, fierce and fixed on me. "Best of all, ever since you got picked up and changed by this, whatever it is, you haven't really changed. Maybe you're a little lighter, a bit more open, but you're still the same person I fell for; you haven't tried to be someone else, something else. You're Pippa, you've always been Pippa." Small steps; I had my ears pierced a day or two later and sent Nina a picture of the gold studs glinting in my ear lobes. Affirmation came from the strangest of directions. One Saturday night Nina and I had a few beers and a night in a York hotel after she'd pulled an overnight guard duty on the Friday. While I'd grown nowhere near voluptuous, the growing pains in my pelvis and rounding out my thighs and bum meant I looked less androgynous and more willowy, though I still couldn't fill the cups of the training bra I'd optimistically bought myself. For our Saturday night in York I'd worn skinny jeans that made it quite clear what I'd become and what I'd left behind, a close fitting, round necked top hidden under a heavy, short waisted biker jacket. Fresh from the box suede ankle boots, with fine 3" heels, made for pretty tapping and a perfect accompaniment for the higher boots Nina wore over her jeans. Before we'd left the hotel room she'd dragged me to the dressing table, made me stand still and deftly applied some of her lipstick to me. Considering the sex we often enjoyed, to stand there while she made my lips gleam felt incredibly intimate. Obviously pleased with the results she did my eyes next, just eyeliner and some mascara, but when she presented me to the mirror the effect was startling. I'd kept my hair short, a nervous visit to a salon recommended by a friend at work had left me with a tousled, pixie cut I liked, though I kept promising myself I'd grow out my hair when I had a proper figure. Even with my lean hips and tiny breasts, the touch of makeup, little hoops gleaming in my ears and my feminine hair combined to make me look like a woman. No, not like a woman - an actual woman. Slender and athletic maybe, but bit by bit the Phillip was fading away, leaving me to stand there, transfixed, with Nina's arms around my waist while she peeped over my shoulder and grinned at the smile spreading over my face. "You're a genius," I said. "Just doing my job, ma'am." A brilliant evening followed, York is a fabulous city. Midnight passed as we hurried back to the hotel; arm in arm with my wonderful girlfriend, with the sweet, slick taste of her lipstick on mine and, even desperate to pee, I couldn't have been happier. Then three lads walked past, heading for town and boisterously drunk, good looking in a studied manner and full of themselves; so much so that one of them shouted at us over his shoulder. "Oy! Lezzas, let's see ya snoggin', give her a feel, go on!" His two mates sniggered. Nina stiffened, but I couldn't help myself - I laughed. A bright, light sound now my voice had unbroken. I laughed and laughed, then had to press my thighs together before I wet myself. I hunched there on the side of the road, under a streetlamp laughing until my sides hurt and Nina wondered, vociferously, what was so fucking funny? The lads had wandered off, as bemused by my reaction as Nina was. "Oy, lezzas!" I repeated and set myself off again. "I'm going to wet myself!" I squeaked. "Serves you right. What's so funny? That, my girl is homophobia and it's shit." "They think we're lesbians!" "We are lesbians, aren't we? Did I miss something?" "They think you're a lesbian, Nina and they think I'm a lesbian too and they think we're lovers." "How much have you had to drink?" "The same as you! Don't you see?" Pulling away from her I danced forward a couple of steps, caught hold of a streetlamp and swung myself around it, a delighted grin on my face. "Look! I'm Pippa and I'm a lesbian. More importantly, I'm your lesbian." Then she got it and she laughed too. She wanted to dance with me, there and then, but I had urgent matters to attend to and we only just made it back in time. Next morning, Sunday, we slept late, made love, showered and had breakfast in the city when most people were starting lunch. Then we shopped. Nina didn't do shopping - not in the way people who aren't women imagine women shop. The kind of clothes shops she liked used terms like 'windproof' and 'wicking' to sell their products. She liked high heels, but wouldn't go browsing; if she saw an eye-catching pair in a window display she'd be in and out like a surgical strike. Her make-up of choice, eyeliner and lipstick, all came from whichever supermarket she might be at the time she remembered she needed some. So I was a little surprised when she announced we were Shopping. "Shopping shopping?" "Upper case and underlined shopping," she agreed. "Because...?" "Christmas is coming and you and I are going to be the hottest couple ever." I think it's good when your lover keeps surprising you. "You know it's okay to be a girly girl," she announced when we took a latte break, without having bought anything. Perched atop tall stools in the window of an artfully bland coffee shop overlooking a busy shopping precinct, we got sticky fingers sharing a Danish pastry and watched the world go by. When I slowly sucked the sugar from her fingers the look of disdain thrown our way from a mature, immaculately casual couple in a booth behind us made me laugh. "Is it okay to be a lesbian?" I asked, maybe a little loud. "See. You already don't give a shit what people think about you and me being a couple." "That's different. I don't feel judged for being your girlfriend." "You feel judged for being a girl?" "For being not always a girl." She was about to say 'fuck 'em' again, so I interupted her before she?d started. "I?ll do my best." Though it felt good to sedately browse those clothes shops with my girlfriend, idly wondering what I might like to wear for a Christmas party and curious about what Nina might go for. I thought back to the simple pleasure of walking into that Dorothy Perkins shop like I owned the place and a couple more pieces of the Pippa Allan jigsaw dropped into place. I might be short haired and skinny, and holding hands with another girl, but I?d really become a woman since then. As Nina and I browsed, happily selected the most tasteless and outlandish garments for each other, surrounded by our laughter and love, the assumed contempt from all those imagined haters dissolved. Those kind of people were going to hate me whatever I did and whatever I didn?t; I should stop letting them run my life. "That one!" I said, suddenly as we steadily swept through a branch of New Look brim full with everything I could have possibly wanted. Nina regarded the skirt with her head on one side, then nodded. "Not one I?d wear, but you?ll look great in it." "You don?t own a skirt." "I do too! It?s a hideous khaki thing with granniefied box pleats I have to wear for parades." Which obviously didn?t count, but when she showed me a picture I had to agree, it was a particularly ugly, uniform skirt. This one felt gorgeous when I took myself to the changing room and pulled it on; mid-calf length, it?s outer layer made from a semi-sheer, pleated black fabric printed with bold, red roses over a slightly shorter, satin layer. I swirled my hips and smiled at the skirt?s caresses over my bare legs, then threw back the cubicle?s curtain to curtsey theatrically at Nina. She nodded. "It looks fabulous. What do you think?" The bored looking sales assistant, in charge of the changing rooms, looked up from where she was arranging unwanted items on a rail. "I wish I was tall enough to carry off a skirt like that the way she does." "Me too," Nina sympathised. "It feels lovely," I said. "Can she wear it out? If I go and pay for it now?" Nina asked. Without much opportunity to protest, she and the assistant were ganging up on me, the label was removed from my new skirt and Nina headed purposefully towards the tills. "Don?t forget tights," the assistant called after her. "She can?t wear that skirt with those socks." A few minutes later, with a happy grin, Nina presented me with a packaged pair of black, lace-topped hold ups. "If you?re going for it, you are going for it." "I wish my boyfriend would show me that much interest," the assistant muttered as I went back behind the curtain. "Bin him, find a better one," Nina suggested. I hadn?t worn stockings for so long I?d almost forgotten the sensual indulgence of arranging the seams neatly over my toes, drawing them over my legs and settling the lace band around my upper thighs. The smooth hiss I made drawing my legs over each other lifted a dreamy smile. Nina had painted my toenails and deep, shimmering emerald colour only the week before and I wriggled my toes through the nylon they looked exotically feminine. It seemed a shame to cover them with my heeled ankle boots, but it was way too autumny for open-toed shoes. Nina got a kiss for her trouble, and the skirt, while the assistant got our thanks before I was outside and back onto the precinct to feel the delightful swirl around my sheer legs as the wind played with my skirt. I stood there, happily out in a skirt and let the evening shoppers flood past me; nobody cared. All was well. "I don?t want to be a girly girl," I said, slipping my arm around Nina?s waist. "And I don?t want to be seen as some lipstick wearing, femme lesbian." "You?re saying I?m butch!" She got a playful punch for that; with one hand around me and the other holding a bag she couldn?t defend herself. "And I?ll stick to trousers and tunic for work, and I?ll stick to hiking and climbing and kayaking with you." "But?" "But I do love this skirt." "If I?m being honest, Pippa, I can?t wait to get my hands on your legs." She didn?t have to wait very long.