When I said I wanted a change in perspective, becoming a woman was the last thing I expected.
My boss booked me a vacation, my first in years, to give me the chance to recharge my batteries. And up here at this magnificent resort I thought I could really get the chance to find my new beginning. I just didn’t know how true that would be.
Because I woke up as her, as this beautiful woman. I was in her body feeling all of her feelings and I was terrified but drawn in all at the same time. I wanted a new start, but this wasn’t what I expected.
Least of all did I expect him, the handsome man across the hall I can’t help but keep running into. The man who makes this newly feminine body of mine ache and dream. The man who I can’t help but fall into over and over again.
When I’m with him he makes me think things I never thought I could. He makes this new body of mine crave attention. He makes me want to see what life is like on the other side of the gender divide. He makes me want to give in.
I should be searching for a way to change back. I should be fighting all these dreams, these fantasies, these urges. I should shut him out and shut myself off, but I can’t.
Because my new body wants what my new body wants. It needs someone to prove to me that this is what I’ve wanted all along. It has cravings that are becoming so much harder to ignore.
And one night with him isn’t going to change everything for me. One little experience isn’t going to make me want it forever. One little indulgence isn’t going to make me lose myself in this new body.
I can have a taste before I walk away forever. Right?
Welcome To Chez Femme
Girly Getaway is just one part of the Welcome to Chez Femme series, a collaborative project including standalone stories from some of the top Transgender Romance authors writing today! Each unique story is a different tale set in the mysterious and enticing resort of Chez Femme. Be sure to read them all for a fully immersive experience in the wonderful world of body transformation and steamy romance!
Welcome to Chez Femme, we just know you’re going to love it here.
Excerpt
I was looking at a woman, that much was clear to me, but I wasn’t a woman at all.
I was a man. I was born a man and I’d always been a man and nothing could change that. Right?
But I was staring in the mirror at picture-perfect evidence that wasn’t true. Because when I raised my right hand so did she, her slender fingers starting to shake a little with her nerves. When I parted my lips, it was her face that registered the shocked expression. When I pressed that hand against my chest to feel the pounding of my heart it was her hand that moved, her heart that was beating, and her breasts that I felt pressing against my palm.
“No,” I whispered in a voice that was not my own as the panic welled up in me, “This cannot be happening.”
Snapping on the cold water tap I let it rush into the sink, the roar of it filling the bathroom and echoing in the empty space. I tried not to look at the reflection, it was so much easier to deny what it was that I was seeing when I wasn’t actually looking at it, and I fixated on the thought of that as I took the water into my hands and started launching it against my face.
Once and then again. Then again and again until I was drenched, face dripping and the collar of my shirt soaking wet and my hair plastered to my skin and then, and only then, I looked up to see that I was staring into eyes that weren’t my own.
So I slapped myself hard. The shock of it so forceful that it actually sent me reeling sideways. Then I stared back at the reflection in the mirror and saw still those big eyes, those proud cheekbones, and I went back to splashing myself with water again.
Pinching followed the splashing and then more water afterward and I screamed with a voice that didn’t belong to me and hyperventilated, anything to try to wake me out of this. But none of it was working and each time I stared into the mirror I was staring into a reflection that was not my own and each time, each and every goddamn time, all it served to do was make the panic run even higher.
Frustrated and out of my depth I started clawing at my clothes. I tugged the now-soaked jacket off my shoulders and threw it into the corner. I pushed at the belt of my pants and once it was undone they fell off hips that weren’t meant to fit them and I kicked them away.
And I could tell even without pulling the shirt off of me what I looked like beneath. The white fabric of my dress shirt was clinging to my body, soaking wet and mostly seethrough, and I could see the full, high, proud breasts beneath it and the smooth and soft swells of femininity but I needed to know. I needed to know.
Goddammit, I needed to know.