Mickie and Laurie Pt. 16

The next day I went back to work, and didn't have too much trouble with leaving the house. Once I had showered, I looked at my face carefully. The scratch was still apparent, and slightly red. I knew people would ask questions, so I experimented with some very subtle foundation to hide it. In the end, I seemed to find the right balance between minimizing the scratch and not overdoing the make-up. If anyone actually called me out on wearing make-up, I could tell them that I had scratched my face in a fall, and had gotten Mickie's help covering it up. It seemed semi-plausible.

I asked Mickie what she thought of my face. She took me into the bathroom where the light was good and looked critically at it. Then she broke out some brushes and a bottle of something that I had never used, and fiddled with it a bit more. I looked at her handiwork, and had to agree that both the scratch and the make-up were now even less noticeable. She told me to be careful not to rub my face and mess up the coverage.

My day at work was busy but mostly uneventful--except for one thing. In the afternoon I got a call from a number that I didn't recognize. Picking it up, I discovered that it was the gender clinic calling me. A receptionist greeted me in a friendly voice.

"Laurie, Dr. Shapiro's initial recommendation is that we proceed to a full assessment," she said. I appreciated that she used that name when addressing me. Unfortunately, in my work environment I was not able to speak in the higher voice pitch that I normally would have wanted to use.

"Thank you so much," I replied. "What's next."

"We will need you to come in for a physical examination, and also get some preliminary blood work," she said. "Would you have any openings next week?"

Wow, things were moving fast! I looked at my calendar and found a time that would work. She instructed me to get my blood drawn at a lab associated with the clinic in the next few days so that the results would be available for the doctor who was conducting the examination. I called Mickie to tell her the news, and she was really happy for me.

Then she mentioned that she would be home late again. I hung up feeling a real sense of unease. This was now the second day in a row where she was going to be late. And last night she had gone out after dinner too. Furthermore, she would not tell me what she was doing. If it was hooking up with Jamal, I wondered why she was keeping it secret when she had been happy to fill me in before, during, and after her previous sessions. Could it be another fling that was more serious?

*

The next day I went in to get my blood drawn for the requested tests. I went at lunchtime, and told my work that I might be back late from the lab. I had a duffle bag with me that contained gender-appropriate clothes and a small make-up kit. At the clinic, I asked for the all-gender bathroom, whose existence I had already confirmed online, and went in with my gear. Of course, I already had panties on and was fully tucked, so I just took off my male clothes and pulled on the skinny jeans I had worn to the dance club, along with my black bra and a snug scoop-neck black t-shirt that I thought looked cute. I noticed that the jeans were just a little bit looser; I had lost a bit of weight. I pulled off my wig and undid my hair, then tied it back in a ponytail. Finally, I did a quick make-over. It could have been better, but it would have to do because I was worried about tying up the bathroom for too long.

When I returned to the front desk they had all the paperwork, so I was able to go right in to the phlebotomist. She drew several vials' worth of blood, and complimented me on my nice veins. She was interacting with me as if I were a woman, which I greatly appreciated. She also lingered a bit with touching me, and told me she liked my shirt. I got the sense she was coming on to me, but then I confused myself by wondering whether or not she knew I was a trans woman. In any case, I thought she was cute, and could imagine having some fun with her if I were not already in a committed relationship. I restricted myself to smiling a lot and repaying her compliments with some of my own.

After making sure that all my paperwork was in order at the front desk, I returned to the all-gender bathroom, only to find it occupied. I waited in the hallway, and was surprised to be hailed by name.

"Laurie! Hello again," came a familiar voice. As I turned around, I connected the voice with a name: Dr. Shapiro. And there he was, wearing a white coat this time, and smiling at me. I tried to give him what I hoped was a winning smile back.

"Dr. Shapiro, how nice to see you," I said. He seemed pleased that I remembered his name.

"I don't want to presume, but are you getting your bloodwork for your next appointment at the clinic?" he asked.

I nodded and told him I had a physical examination next week. I must have looked a little bit uncomfortable because he then assured me that it was not going to be a high-pressure situation, but it was a necessary step before the endocrinologist could write any prescriptions. I nodded in understanding.

Then I heard the toilet flush, followed by running water and towels being pulled out of the dispenser. A flustered looking middle aged woman opened the door and walked out, going right between Dr. Shapiro and me. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing. I apologized and told him I needed to step in there. He said he looked forward to seeing me again at the clinic. What a nice man.

I quickly changed out of my feminine attire (except for panties) and donned my original outfit. I looked at my face in the mirror, and wiped away the eyeshadow and mascara. I mostly left the foundation and blush because I still needed to hide the scratch on my face--although it was mostly faded. I was confident that it was not going to leave a scar. Finally I did up my hair and pulled on the wig, working it into place carefully. When I was sure I had taken care of all aspects of my transformation, I flushed the toilet and washed my hands, just to convey the idea that my reasons for using the room were biological rather than sartorial.

As I walked out, I saw Dr. Shapiro down the hall, talking to a colleague. He glanced my direction, looked away, then did a double take. I guess he had surmised that this was "Laurie's" male persona. I was sorry that he had seen me, although really, in his practice he must have seen everything, so I tried not to dwell on it. But deep down, I found that I wanted him to think of me as a girl.

*

For the next few days, things continued as usual. I went to work, and Mickie stayed out late. I was becoming more and more agitated about her absences, and I had a strong urge to confront her. I also continued masturbating with the dildo and indulging in rape fantasies. The self-loathing that I felt was the only thing that was keeping me from calling out Mickie. Who was I to criticize her when I was such an awful pervert. Then one evening I got a text from her.

"Is this him?" it asked. This was followed by a photo taken with her phone camera, showing a middle-aged man in a ball cap and hoodie. He seemed to be standing next to a dumpster by what looked like a warehouse. He looked seriously scared. It was Drew. Mixed feelings of fear and disgust bubbled up from my guts.

"Laurie?" she texted.

With trembling thumbs, I replied with a one-word answer. "Yes." She gave this text the thumbs up symbol, and I did not hear anything else from her. What was going on? Why was she with Drew?

When Mickie got home about an hour later, she was subdued but seemed happy. I raised my eyebrows at her, but did not ask the burning questions in my mind. She poured herself a glass of wine and came to sit by me on the couch.

"Honey, I know it's been bothering you that I've been out so much," Mickie said. I nodded. This was not big news.

"And I also told you that I would explain things when the time was right," she continued. "Well, that time has come." I knew this was going to be important, so I sat up straight and looked Mickie in the face.

"That first night after you were attacked, I went into your Uber app and got the details on your driver," she said.

"Yes, I noticed my phone was missing in the night," I replied.

"Once I had that, I told Jamal what happened." This shocked me. I didn't really want anyone else to know, and I was a little bit peeved that Mickie had taken it upon herself to tell him.

"He was pissed," she continued. "Seriously pissed. And when I told him I had the driver's information, he came up with a plan for payback."

Now my head was reeling. Mickie had been out every night looking for Drew. And what did she mean by "payback"?

"We kept trying to book Uber rides to see if Drew was available as a driver," Mickie said. "We focused on the areas where he had picked you up before. We almost got him a couple of nights ago, but someone else booked him first.

"Then tonight I managed to snag him," she continued. "I had a ride booked to an empty warehouse, and Jamal was waiting for us there. When we got there, we had a little talk with him. He understands that he did a very bad thing, and that he can never show his face near you again."

Then Mickie reached into her pants pocket, pulled out some cash, and handed it to me. It was at least a hundred dollars. "I know it's more than he took, but he told us he wants you to have it as an apology for his actions," she said.

I was speechless, but finally expressed what was on my mind. "What did you do to him?" I asked.

"Don't worry, he's not seriously hurt," said Mickie. "Jamal gave him a few taps in return for how he treated you."

"But won't he be able to track you down and report you to the cops?" I asked.

"Nope," she replied. "Burner phone and brand-new account. Which reminds me..." She pulled out a phone that I did not recognize and proceeded to delete the Uber app. Then she looked up and said, "It's not really about the payback, although that made us feel good--and I hope you too. The important thing is, he understands now that there are consequences, and he's not going anywhere near you ever again."

As Mickie said these words, I felt such unconditional love for her. She and Jamal had invested hours and hours of their time tracking down my assailant, and had put themselves in jeopardy to discourage him from ever threatening me again. I let myself collapse against her and put my arms around her neck and my face against her chest. I realized that I was crying. I wasn't sad, but the intense emotions that I was feeling opened the floodgates. Mickie hugged me hard and I periodically shook with little sobs.

Finally it wound down and I leaned away from her. Mickie reached out and brushed some of my tears from my cheeks, smiling at me. I smiled back, and then leaned back in to kiss her on the mouth. Initially it was just emotional but chaste, but in short order it turned into something more erotic. We made out on the couch for five or ten minutes, then without speaking we moved to the bedroom and pleasured each other for a long time.

*

After learning of what Mickie and Jamal had done, I began to relax and recover from my assault. As the week progressed, I began to think about my upcoming appointment at the gender dysphoria clinic. This time there would be a physical examination of my body, and I felt very nervous about this. First of all, I was uncomfortable with the idea of letting a stranger, even if it was a medical specialist, look at my body. More importantly, though, I expected some serious pushback about the obvious hormone-induced transformations that had already taken place. I imagined that any doctor would take a dim view of self-medication. My plan was to accept whatever criticism I received, and make the argument that what I had done just showed how desperate I was to transition. Of course, I would not say anything about Mickie putting me on hormones; this had to be sold as my project.

In anticipation of getting quizzed about the source of my drugs, I went through the details at length with Mickie. I found out where she had obtained the hormones, and what sort of quality assurance came with them. Certainly there was no doubt that they had worked. But I would also toe the party line and say how I was worried about their reliability, and that I realized I needed to be under regular medical supervision when taking drugs with potentially serious side effects. Hopefully this contrition would mollify the M.D. who examined me.

Soon enough it was the day of my exam. I thought carefully about what to wear, and settled on the outfit I had worn when I went to Candy's for the hair extensions: a black ruffle skirt, a cream-colored knit top with black piping, matching thigh-high stockings, and platform sandals. I didn't go for the chignon because it would take too long. Instead, I just let my hair hang loose. I did put in some hoop earrings, though, and once again wore a black choker. (I had become quite self-conscious about my Adam's apple after Mickie had mentioned it to me.)

Mickie was still home when I came out of the bedroom, and approved my fashion choices. She also praised my make-up, which she said was getting better and better. We hugged and then I left to catch an Uber. I was now a little gun shy about what kind of person I could meet, but common sense told me I had taken dozens, perhaps hundreds of Uber rides, and only Drew had been a problem.

In the event, it was a nice immigrant guy from the Middle East. He was friendly without being creepy, and wished me a nice day when he dropped me off. I reminded myself that most people are good, and it was counterproductive to always expect trouble. But I still had a nagging sense that I had been careless in not picking up on Drew's potential as a bad actor. It was so difficult to know where to draw the line--being a woman is so hard, and especially a trans woman who aspires to passing.

I walked into the offices and let the receptionist know that I was there for an appointment. She said, "Dr. Harris will be ready for you in a little while. We'll call you." I noticed that the file had my feminine name on it, which was a nice surprise.

I sat down and crossed my legs. Then I surreptitiously scanned the waiting area. Since this was a clinic specializing in gender dysphoria problems, I had to assume that some of the patients were in transition, and I wondered how they were doing in their journeys. Indeed, there were several people that I would describe as "gender fluid," presenting a mixed or androgynous look. Others were more conventional, and without being too obvious I tried to decide if they were at the beginning of exploring transition, or if they were far enough along that they could pass. It was hard to know for sure, and anyway, it was none of my business.

Soon enough, the same nurse as before called my name, and this time I was not in a reverie that required her to call more than once. I grabbed my purse and stood right up, then walked to the door in long strides that I tried to temper so as not to appear too masculine. She obviously remembered me from my earlier visit, and complimented my outfit as we walked back to an examination room. Once again she took my vitals, and they were similar to before.

The nurse praised my overall health, but then opened a cupboard and pulled out a hospital gown. It was white with a pattern of small grey shapes, alternating between a larger hexagonal shape and a smaller solid dot. With a look of apology, she handed it to me and told me I needed to change into this for the examination.

"You can leave your underpants on, but please take everything else off," she said. "You can leave it on that chair." She pointed at a plastic chair in the corner of the room. She told me she would leave me some privacy to change, and stepped out closing the door behind her.

I ruefully began undressing, putting my sandals underneath the chair. Then I slid down the stockings and carefully arranged them so they wouldn't tangle, followed by the skirt and the top. Finally I unhooked my bra. I was wearing black bikini panties, which I left on. I slid on the gown, which closed in the back with several snaps and a cord at the top which could be tied. I did my best to secure it and looked at myself. The gown was short on me, coming only part way down my thighs. It was also kind of shapeless, so that one could not really discern much about my proportions. I thought that might be for the best, since I was expecting some conflict regarding my DIY hormone treatment.

After a few minutes the door opened and a white-coated doctor walked in and greeted me briskly. I was shocked to find that Dr. Harris was a woman. For some reason I had expected an older man who would take me to task with an avuncular tone but then OK the HRT once I had shown him I was properly contrite. I was not so sure how I would best approach this unexpected development. Dr. Harris looked to be in her mid- to late thirties, with short, dark curly hair. She looked fit, and was several inches shorter than me.

She brought a lot of energy into the room with her, and I involuntarily backed up a step, finding myself with my butt against the examination table. I saw her take in my body language, as well as my carefully pitched response to her greeting.

"Hello...uh...you must be Dr. Harris?" I said, ending my sentence in an upward intonation.

"That's right," she said. "And you are...Laurie?" I nodded.

"Well Laurie, do you know why we're here today?" she asked.

"I guess you're going to assess what sort of treatment would be best if I am approved for transition," I replied.

"That's true," she said. "But I also need to get a general picture of your health. For example, you've had your vitals taken here twice, and they look very good." I nodded hopefully.

"On the other hand," she continued, "your blood work has raised some questions in my mind. Can we discuss that?"

I nodded again, and Dr. Harris pointed to the examination table, while she grabbed a wheeled chair and brought it around so that she was facing me. I carefully boosted myself up onto the table, trying to keep the gown from revealing too much. Not for the first time, I noticed that my upper body strength was seriously diminished from what it had been pre-hormones, and I had to strain a bit to lift myself up. As before, I sensed that Dr. Harris was taking all of this in. I was becoming increasingly nervous about this appointment.

"Your sex hormones are quite unbalanced, Laurie," she said. "In particular, your testosterone is really low, but you have higher than normal levels of estrogen. I also have to agree with Dr. Shapiro's observation that you present femme in a way that most pretransition patients would not be able to manage. I have to ask you, have you previously been on hormone replacement therapy?"

I had known this was coming, but Dr. Harris' question still created a knot in my stomach. Of course, I was going to have to own up to what Mickie and I had done (although I would leave Mickie out), but I was not all sure how sympathetic Dr. Harris would be when I told her about the DIY HRT. I gathered my wits and tried to answer.

"Yes," I said, "and I need to come clean Dr. Harris. I was on estrogen and spironolactone for the better part of a year until recently." She nodded to convey her complete lack of surprise. I continued, "The thing is, this wasn't done under a doctor's supervision. And I got more and more concerned about that, which is why I went off them and applied to this clinic."

"Let me get this straight--you were treating yourself with dangerous hormones for a year?" she asked incredulously.

"Well...yes," I replied. "And in the light of day I can see how incredibly irresponsible that was."

"More than just irresponsible," Dr. Harris said, shaking her head. "The hormones you can get bypassing the normal pharmacy route are questionable. You don't know what you're putting into yourself." I nodded vigorously. "But it's not just that. Even if they were totally fine, taking them without regular blood work and follow-ups with a doctor could put you at risk of major medical problems. Especially estrogen! That is a powerful drug, and we always have to watch out for dangerous effects like high blood pressure, diabetes, blood clots and strokes, you name it."