Work Text:
I kick the apartment door shut behind me as I enter. It’s been a long fucking day, everything is getting on my nerves, and I’m still trying to pass myself off as a guy for some goddamn reason. Fuck me.
Tossing the keys to my 16-year old subcompact on the laminate countertop, I lean against the cabinets and pull out my phone out of habit. Rookie mistake. My former high school “friends” are arguing about something dumb again. I should really just cut my losses and leave the group chat. I don’t have much other social interaction to replace it, but I barely talk in there anyways. I chicken out again before I can commit, and put my phone aside on the counter.
A nagging voice in my head tells me it’s been a few hours since I’ve last drank any water, and I reflexively scoff at it, but open the cupboard and stick a glass under the tap anyways. I’m kind of glad for that part of me, but I wish it could help me to be less of a pussy in general.
Moving out and getting an okay-ish retail job have made me feel a lot more like a real person this past year, but I’m still in deep shit, and I know it. I had been planning to major in music all through middle and high school, but after I graduated I suddenly got crazy anxious about everything and couldn’t bear to commit to post-secondary. That year was probably my lowest point, living at home with disappointed parents while everyone I knew moved on in life and left me behind. What little I did care for myself was mostly low-effort maintenance to try and stave off dysphoria—sure I was a depressed NEET, but at least I shaved often.
It’s been a few years since I finally accepted I was trans, but I’ve sucked at actually doing anything about it. I had no room to as much as think about transitioning until I left home, and I’m still stuck in a rut living as a barely-androgynous guy with shoulder-length hair I don’t know how to care for. I know there’s nothing stopping me from actually making an effort to dress like the girl I really am (well, aside from being somewhat broke), but every time I try to look at women’s clothes in a store, or even online, I just feel like it’s something I don’t deserve, or can’t fit into. I know nothing about being a woman, even what little I think is “cute” from seeing the occasional fashion post or art online probably wouldn’t even look good on me. I know it’s an awful perspective to have, but I just can’t shake it. Maybe if I can finally get access to a doctor and stealth on hormones for a while I’ll kick the self-deprecation and actually do something with my life. But that’s a big if, seeing as I’m apparently the world’s greatest pussy without a pussy.
I break off my deprecating train of thought there. I should probably put some thought towards supper, but it’s awfully humid and I’m still dressed in my work uniform. I don’t really have much good in the way of summer clothing, and the thought of lounging around in my underwear makes me feel gross, so cargo shorts and a t-shirt is better than nothing. I trudge down the hall to my bedroom and push open the door, cringing as I realise I probably should’ve closed the curtains in the morning to prevent it from heating up like a sauna.
In what feels like a blink of an eye, there is a knife at my throat and a hand over my mouth. Startled, I jump reflexively, nearly slitting my throat on the blade, but by some miracle, my attacker is holding the knife looser than I would have thought. My pulse practically doubles, and I start shaking uncontrollably. Well fuck me.
My assailant remains silent and motionless. I try to stay as still as possible with my frayed nerves to communicate some sense of docility, but I happen to glance down and see what I at first assume is my own Remington fixed-blade in their hand. I look off to the shelf where the knife usually gathers dust—which it still is. Just my luck to get robbed by someone with the same taste as me.
A shove on my back pushes me towards my bed, and I let myself be bent over with my arms twisted behind my back. This leaves my mouth uncovered to catch a few gasping breaths, but the knife shifts to the back of my neck to discourage any attempt at calling for help.
“I’ll give you whatever you want,” I croak weakly. “Please don’t hurt me.”
God I sound pathetic. Better that than dead at least. Well, that still might be on the table. I’ve just been hoping this is a robbery.
“You’re going to give me exactly what I want,” a feminine voice replies, and I try and nod weakly. I feel the cold line of steel lift off of my neck, so I guess I must seem pathetic enough to not pose a threat.
“There’s cash in an envelope in the top right dresser drawer,” I say, trying not to hyperventilate. “It’s just that and the computer, really, I swear.”
“I’m not here to rob you, Kayla.”
My mind shatters.
It’s like the feeling of being publicly embarrassed or having some awful secret about you revealed. Like if you tried to confess your crush on a popular girl you thought was friendly with you in tenth grade, only to just have her stare at you awkwardly and give a grossed-out “...Okay?” before walking away. Like having your mother pull you aside in the kitchen after dinner, only to pull out your phone, unlock it, and show you the seedy lesbian BDSM porn website in your browser history with a disappointed look on her face. Like all that, but a thousand, million times worse, an incredibly painful burning feeling deep in my gut that makes me want to throw up and cry and curl up into a ball until I condense into a black hole.
“hh-h-how do y-you know my... name” I stammer out, scared and bewildered. I’ve never told anyone. I feel silly just having chose it, since I’ve barely made any other effort towards transitioning whatsoever. It’s my deepest secret.
Instead of getting a response, I hear the knife clatter to the floor before I am lifted up by surprisingly strong arms (wow, shitty of me to assume a woman would be weaker) and tossed fully onto the bed, head nearly smacking against the wall. My unseen attacker grabs my arm and forcefully yanks me over onto my back. I freeze completely.
Looking down at me, fishnet-clad knee pressing against my chest, is...me. Well, a much nicer version of me at least. Her auburn hair shines warmly and is clearly brushed and conditioned well, as opposed to my tangled frizzy mess. Her cheeks are fuller, lips more defined, skin clear as a baby’s, and gone are the shadows around my eyes that I just can’t seem to get rid of. She looks much healthier than my scrawny 120-pound ass—I can’t see her ribs sticking out through her shirt, for one—and that weight seems to have gone to good use, between her actual, honest-to-god tits, wide hips, and a tummy that actually peeks slightly over the waistband of her tartan miniskirt instead of being as flat as a chessboard. But beyond all that, it’s still undoubtedly the same body I cringe at seeing in the mirror; just inhabited by someone who seems to have evolved past that disgust.
My poor bewildered mind tries to search for some explanation, some logical reasoning, but I’m still scared half to death and far from thinking clearly. But there’s no denying it.
While I’m slowly losing my mind, my...clone? Döppleganger? Future self? Starts unbuttoning my pants, and I shrink into the mattress uncomfortably.
“P-please...” I whimper, scared again.
“Please what?” Other-me dryly responds. “Use your words, girl.”
I hate the effect that sentence has on me.
“Please don’t...strip me,” I weakly intone, flinching as she unzips my fly. “Can we just t-talk?”
Part of me feels...excited by how pathetic I sound right now. Jesus christ, I’m messed up.
Other-me stops undressing me, and gives me a look that could only be regarded as pity. Not a hint of loathing or disgust, just pure, unbridled, pity.
“You have a lot to unpack,” she says, sounding almost sorry. “And it’s gonna suck. And you’re going to hate me for this, but I’m only doing what I have to. Try to enjoy, it if you can”
I don’t have the energy in me to plead or beg, and I know my words would be wasted on her. I start to disassociate as she pulls my pants off my legs, and numbly move my arms upwards for her to remove my shirt. I still wear boxers, and I hate it, but she at least leaves me that shred of dignity for now.
My awful thoughts on what comes next are forcefully displaced from my mind as Other-me leans down over me, clamps her teeth on my shoulder near the base of my neck, and bites down. Hard.
It hurts so fucking bad, but the noise that comes out of my mouth sounds more like a moan than anything. And as much as I hate it, it does almost feel good, albeit in a way that brings tears to my eyes. I barely have time to gasp before she sinks her teeth into me again, further down my shoulder. My cock twitches in my ugly department store boxers. My mind fully comprehends the fact that rape victims are usually involuntarily aroused by the assault, but god I feel awful regardless.
By the time she lifts her head from my completely flat chest, it’s covered in lipstick-ringed angry red welts bearing my dental pattern. My squealing moans have diminished to quiet whimpers, and I’m pretty sure there’s a massive wet spot in my underwear. Other-me wipes a strand of saliva from her mouth with the back of her hand, and smiles at her handiwork.
“You look wonderful like this,” she teases with a cloyingly sweet smile. I don’t respond, but I do start trembling when she finally reaches down towards my crotch.
“Relax, girl, we both know you hate the thought of anal. That’s off the table.”
I loosen up a little, but still can’t stop myself from trembling. So this is how I lose my virginity: being raped by my alternate self in my shitty twin bed.
“Oops, almost forgot,” Other-me exclaims, pantomiming a ditsy gesture and sticking her tongue out. She removes her leather choker collar from her neck, slides it around mind, and clasps it shut. The still-warm collar sits snugly around my neck, not uncomfortably tight, but a pressure I’m not used to.
“Try and relax a little,” she chides as she slides my boxers off. I’m minorly thankful for not having my erection contained in the precum-soaked fabric any longer, but I’m still scared of the impending sex.
Other-me makes a show of pulling off her top with the crossed-arm trick girls always do, letting her breasts bounce down in her lacy black bra. That comes right after, and I’m deeply jealous of how pretty her areolas look. She lets the skirt fall around her ankles, and when she peels off her cute panties, I don’t notice anything between her legs at first where I was expecting to see the thoroughly-unimpressive dick I was cursed with at birth. It isn’t until she climbs onto the bed and squats over my chest that I see it. My better self has an honest-to-god, perfectly puffy vulva, complete with a clitoral hood and both sets of labia.
“Best decision you’ll ever make,” she says with a proud smile on her face. “The first few months of recovery are a bitch, but after that, you’ll never look back.” She points to a set of faint scars on either side of her labia majora.
I’m shocked. I knew that vaginoplasty was probably better in reality than all the weird gross photos I’d seen the one time I’d looked the procedure up online out of guilty curiosity, but this looked so...natural. And to me, the idea had always been a complete impossibility. It was something only rich girls could get, in like, Thailand, not something real or tangible for someone like me.
My thoughts are rudely interrupted as Other-me turns around, presses herself flat against my stomach, and shoves her pussy in my face. I stick my tongue out almost involuntarily and press it against her lower lips. Her vulva is warm against my tongue, and as I tentatively push further inwards, I’m met with a salty-sweet wetness. She’s already plenty wet, and her taste is soon all over me as I try my best at something I’d barely dreamed of ever doing.
“You’ve still got a lot to learn, but not half bad, Kayla.”
The twinge in my gut from hearing my name again is overtaken by an alien feeling as Other-me takes the head of my throbbing erection into her mouth, tongue lapping at my precum. I continue eating her out with as much fervour as I can manage while she runs her tongue along my dick in practised motions before taking the whole thing to its base, making me let out a moan into her folds. Her throat feels good as fuck around my cock, and I’m sloppily shoving my face into her vulva now, tongue pressing against her clit. I still feel scared, bewildered, somewhat violated, and my mind is racing with a million thoughts that I can’t event begin to unpack. But this at least feels...good. I can’t convince myself otherwise.
We continue sucking and fucking for what feels like an eternity, silence kept at by the constant obscene noises produced by our mouths and muffled moans that blend together at their lowest pitch. I feel fairly close when Other-me cums forcefully, legs twitching at my sides.
“Fuck,” she exclaims, lifting her head from my crotch and wiping spit and precum from her lips. She swings a leg back over my chest, then climbs back on top of me, facing towards me this time. She raises her hips over my dick, gives me a smile, and then lowers herself fully onto my length.
I moan embarrassingly loud, my head rolling back against my pillow. I can’t believe I’m balls deep in my alternate self, but GOD she feels so fucking warm and good. She leans down against me, shifting her position a little to accommodate the five inches of me inside of her, and licks her juices off of my face before pressing her lips against mine.
I stare into her eyes—my eyes. Her tongue slips between my lips, and she kisses me deeply. I entangle my tongue with hers needily, savouring the first real kiss of my life, as I buck my hips gently against hers. Holy fuck I needed this. I needed this so fucking badly. Part of me still wants to believe I don’t deserve this, that this is just a dream, or a hallucination, that I’ll wake up sweating, humping a pillow, but fuck that. This is real, and it is everything to me.
Other-me is still very much the one in control, but I feel like I’m truly involved now. She’s riding me, I’m fucking her, our bodies are tied together, almost unbearably warm, sticky with sweat. I don’t know how long we last for, but it’s pure bliss the whole way. She buries her face against my neck and screams as she climaxes a second time, insides pulsing around my dick.
“Cum for me, baby,” she gasps into my shoulder, and I finally reach the plateau of orgasm, hips twitching as I cum inside of her. We melt into each other, unmoving. Our breathing syncs, and slowly calms. It’s quiet again, and just us.
“did great”, Other-me mumbles quietly. “m’sorry about the whole...noncon thing. didn’t want to leave you any room to second guess everything.”
“Thank you,” I whisper back.
After a few minutes, she grunts and rolls off of my now-flaccid dick, laying on the bed next to me with my cum dripping from her pussy. We snuggle up together again, and at some point, I fall asleep.
~~~
I come to a few hours later, and rub my eyes groggily. My heart sinks as I realise I was probably dreaming—only for that thought to vanish as Other-me steps out of the bathroom into the hallway with a towel wrapped around her hair. She comes back into the bedroom and starts redressing herself, and beckons towards the now-vacant bathroom.
I rise from my bed, stretch a little, and head to the bathroom to shower off.
“Use the green conditioner!” Other-me shouts down the hallway. I shampoo my hair, rub in a little of the conditioner that she must have brought, then rinse off my hair, scrub off the lipstick, sweat and dried cum from my skin, and then step out of the shower to dry off. When I return to the bedroom, she motions me to sit on the floor in front of her, and starts brushing my hair out.
It’s a somewhat painful process given the lack of care I’ve shown it thus far in life, but I can tell she’s trying to be gentle. Other-me pats my hair dry after she finishes, and hands me a pile of clothes before heading to the kitchen. It’s a pair of simple cotton panties, a knee-length skirt, a simple v-neck shirt, and a padded sports bra with thick foam rubber cups. I feel a little embarrassing trying them on for the first time, but it all fits well. I stand in front of the mirror, and for the first time in my life, I think I don’t hate the way I look.
We order takeout for supper. I haven’t eaten since lunch, and am absolutely famished after sex. As I dig into my spicy lemongrass chicken, I glance over at Other-me, and feel something blossom inside me. Maybe this is what love really feels like. We chat over the last of the food, and while she refuses to tell me how any of this possible, or what our future is like, but I can tell she’s hopeful for me.
After we’ve cleaned up, she leads me to the bedroom, and rummaging through a purse I hadn’t noticed before on the dresser, pulls out a small box, a syringe, two needles, an alcohol swab, and a band-aid. She sits down on the bed, and I sit next to her nervously.
“We’re really...doing this?” I ask. I’ve always felt like this was something I had to earn. Something I had to get my life together for.
“Of course we are,” Other-me replies softly. “It’s a start.”
I hike my skirt up, blushing a little at the bulge in my panties, but she pays no mind. She wipes the side of my leg with the alcohol pad, then pulls a small vial out of the box and wrestles a foil seal off the top. Twisting the larger of the two needles onto the syringe, she draws a small amount of liquid from the vial in a practised motion, then draws back the plunger and swaps the needle for a smaller one, depressing the plunger until a tiny bead of liquid glistens on the tip.
Other-me places a finger halfway down the outside of my thigh, pushes in firmly, then drags it a centimetre or two towards my hips. “Z-tracking,” she explains. “Lessens bleeding or estradiol leakage.” I nod, and she hovers the needle over my leg at a forty-five degree angle. I take a deep breath, and she sinks the needle into my vastus lateralis muscle. It stings a little, and my leg twitches involuntarily, but it’s over before I know it, and a tiny red dot is all that marks the injection. She puts a small band-aid over it, and I smooth my skirt out.
“Congrats, Kayla,” Other-me says with a smile.
We sleep together in my small bed, skin against skin, her arms wrapped gently around me. My head is still swimming, but for the first time in my adult life, I feel a real, tangible shred of hope for the future.
~~~
I’m alone in the bed again when I wake up. My mind tries to drift towards the dream explanation again, but the tender bite marks covering my chest disprove that easily enough. And when I crawl out of bed, my new clothes are folded neatly on my desk chair along with the collar I wore, and the injection supplies are sitting on my dresser, along with a folded piece of paper. I unfold it and read it. It’s written in a slightly-neater copy of my handwriting, and contains a small list of local endocrinologists, therapists, and bars that host trans-friendly events. And at the very bottom, flanked by a signature I’ve been too scared to ever write out, is a single sentence that makes me set down the note, sit on the bed, and sob uncontrollably. I still have an entire life ahead of me to figure out, and I have a feeling things won’t always be easy, but in this moment, I am the happiest I’ve ever been in my life so far.
“You’ve got this <3”