I Called Her 'George'

We decided that we'd name each other. She chose the name Samantha for me and suggested that I could shorten it to Sam, if it made me more comfortable. I thanked her, but said it was unnecessary. I tried to do her the same courtesy, but I couldn't think of a man's name that could be shortened into a woman's name. I called her George.

Apart from the names, each decided for ourselves how we'd transform.

The centerpiece of my transformation was like a large paperclip. I won't go into how it worked, I don't know if I could go into detail; but with a particularly tight pair of panties, it gave me a flat front. I never would've guessed that the effect would be more than cosmetic.

The rest was just lingerie. I considered a silicone prosthesis to create a cameltoe under the panties, but the effect was not worth the effort. I was already over the moon with the clip; I'd never been able to wear a g-string, looking down to see the lacey fabric stretched smoothly over a slight feminine mound was more than I could've asked for.

I shaved my legs, wore a bralette and panties, and my transformation was complete and surprisingly easy.

Hers was easier though, I thought. Though perhaps it wasn't, I could be wrong. I don't know what led up to her reveal. Simple ideas can still have a difficult genesis. I never asked; it seemed to go against the idea of the little project.

She wore a black chest binder and had fabricated her own dick. Curiosity got the better of me, and I had to know how it worked. She obligingly took it out to show me. It was, I suppose what you'd call, a double-ended dildo. The end that went inside her was like a very wide butt plug. The genius of this put me to shame, she could keep it inside her without clenching. A soft nubbin on a flange sat directly over her clit.

When she wore it and stood naked before me, she had a breathtakingly firm and veiny flaccid dick. I fell to my knees before her and begged her to let me admire her. I fought the urge to reach out and touch her; instead, I gently pressed the lace of my bralette to my nipple, as I watched her nonchalantly stroke her dick. She told me to shave my "pussy," but otherwise approved.

We'd both taken a week off work to live as our other selves. This was the Saturday, our first day.

After the reveal, she let me watch her dress; she wore boxers, a pair of loose jeans that belonged to me, and a white Ralph Lauren button-down shirt that gave her a solid barrel chest that I could never have pulled off. Her bulge was proudly visible.

I wore pantyhose, a miniskirt, and a sleeveless jumper. After looking me up and down, she held me by the hips and whispered a remark about how my skirt ensured "easy access" into my ear. I promised not to be available whenever she wanted, and to never fight it.She smiled so warmly that I physically felt the warmth against my cheek. Her finger traced the outline of my lips, and I blushed. "...and go put on lipstick," she said "You know the one I like."

"You'll like it better on your dick," I said. She acknowledged what I'd said with a snort, as she was on her way out the door.

After shaving and putting on makeup (cat's eye eyeliner for good measure) I made dinner, lasagne, and we watched TV, while sharing a bottle of merlot. We didn't fuck that night, I fell asleep in her arms, her dick rested between my cheeks, and I could feel her gently grind against me, just enough to ramp up the sexual tension. There were several moments where she almost came, I could tell, but she stopped herself.

I am in awe of her ability to edge, I could not have stopped myself. That nubbin on her clit must've kept her on a knife edge, and I made it a point to grind back, wordlessly communicating that my tight little ass was available for her to use. I wore these assless panties just that eventuality.

I reached back and squeezed her thigh, as I felt her hot breath on my neck.

The next morning, she was perhaps an inch and a half taller than the day before, now just a fraction of an inch shorter than me. I looked her up and down, wondering if I was perhaps crazy. Was she in heels? No, if anyone was to wear heels, it would be me.

I understood what was happening next even before I'd consciously registered it. Direct eye contact, to wild animals, is a challenge for dominance, and challenges must be met. Her heavy hand was squeezing my neck, forcing me to my knees. The look in her eyes was frighteningly calm, I was no challenge.