Orchid Ch. 01

byAwkwardMD©

I love swimming. Floating up and down the lane. It's quiet. Even when I'm pushing myself, racing against my best time, there's a peacefulness to it that's notably lacking from the rest of my life. Not to say that my life is some kind of train wreck, but I think we can all agree that there's more stress in the world than there should be. In the pool, it's just 'lean to the side, and breath'. Kick and stroke. Repetitive motion, always moving forward. It has a kind of poetic beauty to it.

Of course, I could probably reduce just about any action, no matter how mundane, to a pleasing blurb if I set my mind to it.

Trash... trash... Something about taking out the trash... uncluttering life... the way your 'load' is lightened when you finally rid yourself... of... unwanted...

The point is, swimming is good. I like the way it occupies my body and leaves just enough of my brain free to try my hand at things like Tom Sawyer-ing the trash. Plus, I like the way I look in a swimsuit.

I pop up out of the water, fingertips on the wall, and check my watch. 2 seconds behind last week's time, but still ahead of my average. I pant for a minute, enjoying the burn in my shoulders and thighs while I surreptitiously look around. I always start and finish in the deep end because it affords me the best view of the rest of the gym. Most of the evening crowd is either in the lockers or gone. I think about taking a few cooldown laps, just to be sure, but my thighs are screaming at me and my calves are threatening to cramp. Getting a cramp while swimming is, like, one of my nightmares, so... no.

It's weird thinking things like 'I look good in a swimsuit.' Part of me still thinks it's abnormal to care as much as I do, but that voice gets blessedly quieter with every passing month. One of these days, hopefully, I'll be rid of it entirely.

Once my arms start to get cold I know it's time to go. I lift myself up out of the pool, slip my feet into my flips, and wring out my long black hair. I love my fuzzy pink towel.

I waddle nervously into the women's lockers, buried deep inside my pink cocoon. Mine isn't a state where what I'm doing is illegal, but I still worry. Religious nuts don't usually wear signs. The nerves are always worst when I can hear their voices but haven't gotten far enough into the lockers to see how many I have to deal with. The number is always lower than I fear it is. I'll probably never get over the irrational fears, but at least I can cling to the fact that they're irrational.

There's about fifteen women, most clustered in twos and threes, spread around the lockers. More than I'm usually comfortable with. I think I caught the 9:30 spinning class getting out. I turn smoothly and head through to the showers at the far end, and sigh happily that they're empty. I set my towel on one of the faucets to claim it and scurry back to my locker to grab my little bag of goodies.

Limitless hot water is a beautiful thing. I wait until the curtain is shut and I'm under the water, humming softly, to start slipping out of my two piece. It's a struggle not to constantly cup my breasts with my hands, small though they may be, for the sheer joy of having them. Finally.

I mean, I've had them for a couple years now, but the honeymoon phase hasn't ended yet.

And I'm not talking about just sitting around groping myself (although Lord knows I've done that a few times). This is more about... tangible... ness... Or maybe a dream becoming real... or...something. It's definitely something. It has a feel of somethingness to it.

The lower half of my swimsuit is a combination bottom and skirt, which does a beautiful job hiding my bulge while still accentuating my butt. I've kind of always had a cute butt, so the shine has worn off that a little bit even if the hormones really did improve the way it all comes together. I sigh when I realize that I've twisted myself at the hip, pushing my ass out and staring back over my shoulder where I can see it, like I need to double check that it's real too. It's hard getting lost in my own narrative, and it happens way more often than I like to admit.

I take it slow, letting the shampoo and conditioner each sit in my hair for the manufacturer recommended lengths of time. I use my little not-quite-a-loufa-thingy to get the lather nice and thick and go carefully up and down my legs, and hit all the spots in the middle of my back that are just so damn hard to reach. I even take the time to get behind my ears. It feels nice to pamper myself, and I don't have anywhere pressing to be.

Truthfully, I'm a little glad for the excuse to shower here. I prefer the privacy of showering at home, but the shower itself is so much smaller, and old, and doesn't get as hot, and a thousand other things. Plus someone else comes in and cleans this one. Huge, huge bonus.

Most of the others have cleared out by the time I shut off the faucet. Some of the women who shower at the gym have no problem walking back naked but, thankfully, enough keep a towel wrapped modestly that I'm not an oddity for doing so as well. I always try to take a locker in the corner, near the back, and I've pretty much mastered the art of keeping my knees and thighs together while I slip into my panties. I feel like I can't breathe until I've gotten them up and snug around my hips. Today, my panties have a zig-zag pattern in them that does a lot to fool the eye and mask the bulge.

I'm feeling a little bold today so, once my panties are in place, I turn and face the rest of the locker room. Sitting sideways on the bench. I keep my eyes on the floor, kind of staring absently, and let my peripheral vision do the watching. There's another woman, a little older than me, just ahead. I slip my socks on, and she turns when I stand to put on my pants. She only looks at me for a second, taking me in briefly, before she turns back to her own clothes, and I am freaking out! So happy.

I love passing. I hope I never get over that, or stop appreciating that I can. It's not about tricking her, or tricking anyone; it's about acceptance, and it means a lot to me to get it subconsciously, or unconsciously, from others. I am what they expect.

Forgot to breathe again. It's almost funny (almost) how much I hold my breath when I'm risking a little public exposure. I laugh as I slip on my bra and run my hands back through my hair to make sure I don't have any strays caught up. I have to do the same again once I get my t-shirt on.

I sling my gym bag across my chest and smile as I exit the lockers. It's a private victory every time I come to the gym, which is often, and get in and out without incident. That's not to say that I've never been stared at or spotted, but the pitchfork-wielding mob has thus far left me alone and for that I am grateful.

"Kit?"

I nearly trip over my own two feet when I try to come to a stop in the center of the lobby, and my head whirls back and to the right. "Um... "

"Do you remember me?"

"Ummm..." Of course I remember you, Professor. I only masturbated to the thought of you remembering me after every class for an entire semester. Play it cool. Play it cool. It's not like he doesn't feature in just about every fantasy I have. Play it cool. "Didn't I..." I blink and nibble on my lower lip, and he smiles. God, he's gorgeous when he smiles. "Didn't I have you... What class of yours did I take?"

"You were in my Advanced Poetry-"

"-and Short Creative Fiction!" I say, finishing with him. I squint, really trying to sell it. "Professor... Ayers!" He nods as he smiles. His beard is a little more filled in now, which I kind of want to reach up and grab. I nervously tuck my hair back behind my ear and return the smile. "I didn't know you worked out, Professor."

Maybe the biggest lie I've ever told.

"Well, I try to keep in shape."

I can't stop twisting. My whole torso keeps turning back and forth. He's going to notice, but I can't stop. There's so much energy bursting out of me right now. I must look like I'm dancing. "Well good for you, Professor."

"Please. Call me Calvin."

"Ok," I say, hoping to all that is holy that I've kept my voice from quivering. "Calvin." God, he's gotta be like 6'2". Even standing a few feet away, I feel like I'm looking straight up at him. I grab the strap to my bag with both hands to give them something to squeeze. "I really enjoyed your class, by the way. I-I-I felt like I grew a lot... creatively."

"That's wonderful!" His eyes just light up when he smiles. "I'm so glad! You know, I kept your piece, um..." He snaps his fingers and furrows his brow. "The one on leaving childhood behind?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I used that the next semester as an example of polyrhythmic meter." I laugh so hard that I snort. My skin feels so hot I must be glowing. "What?" he says, genuinely looking worried.

"Would it change your opinion if I told you that was completely by accident?"

"That's almost more impressive," he says, grinning.

"Well..." I think I lose about two seconds just staring at his eyes. It's hard to say how long exactly. "...thank you," I squeak. "I... uh... like what you're doing with your beard now. It suits you." Though not half as good as your actual suits, and wow my skin is literally on fire right now.

"Thank you," he stammers. "Listen..." He reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck, and tilts his head in just such a way as to be utterly and completely adorable. "Would you-"

"Yes," I interject. He blinks at me, and laughs. "I'm sorry. Did you want to finish that?"

"Well I was going to ask if-"

"Yes." This is really happening.

He laughs again and shakes his head. "You're not going to make this easy, are you?"

"What is life without struggle?"

"I was going to ask if you'd like to go-"

"Yes." This is really happening.

"-out for dinner, or a drink, with me-"

"Yes." I'm so proud of myself right now.

"-sometime." He licks his lips and looks down at me, eyes narrowed like he's appraising me.

"I don't know, Calvin. I think I might be busy that night." He smiles tightly, and I laugh before he can get too distressed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Yes. I would-I would... I would really like that."

"Okay."

"Okay!"

"Okay!" He repeats, laughing.

"Can I ask you for a big favor though?"

"S-sure," he says, hesitantly only slightly.

"Could you... walk away first?" He chortles as I continue. "I may or may not have done laps tonight, and I'm probably not going to look very dignified when I turn to go. I would much rather have you remember how cool I played it a minute ago than the sight of me falling over."

"You did play it pretty cool."

"I know," I giggle, "right?" I reach into my bag and pull out a pen, and scribble my phone number onto a scrap of paper. "Seriously though. Please don't watch"

He nods, laughing more, and turns toward the men's locker room. I bite down on my lip watching him go. OH! He looked back! He looked back!! I give him a tiny little wave, and then he's gone. Once he's out of sight, I slump considerably. Exhaustedly.

That really just happened.

***

I practically fall back against my front door, twenty minutes later, when I get back to my apartment. I think I've had the same stunned expression the entire time. The cabbie kept asking if I was okay, and now that I think about it, I'm not sure if I ever answered him. No wonder he looked worried.

My gym bag falls short of the armchair, and spills its contents as it tumbles. I'll get it in the morning. There are more important things to take care of. If I don't take care of my night time routine right now, right this second, I'll forget and lose an entire night in fantasizing.

I drift into the kitchen and check my pill planner. I'm sure, logically, that I would be fine if I missed a dose once in three years, but I haven't yet and I don't want to start. I unscrew the cap on my yellow water bottle and chase each pill with a swig. First the red, then the round white, then the oblong white. Sometimes I serenade my pills. Sometimes we dance together. Sometimes I make dirty jokes about how grateful I am for them, and promise to swallow if they let me put them in my mouth.

I leave my clothes behind like a trail of breadcrumbs. Sock here. Sock there. Bra on the chair. Shirt on the floor. Not sure how I managed that order.

It takes me a minute of searching to find my yoga mat, jammed underneath my bed by some nefarious miscreant no doubt, and every ounce of willpower I can summon to push through the Wednesday night poses. Of course, once I get into the groove, it's easier to remember how much yoga does for my abs and ass. This is helping. This is helping. This is helping. Over and over. I repeat it like a mantra. Sometimes I sing it. The cadence helps me keep time. The hardest part about yoga, though, is keeping my mind on yoga and not thinking ahead.

After I'm done, and my limbs are just screaming at me, I crawl into bed and roll onto my back. The last part of my routine is one I never skip, ever, even though I'm a little conflicted about it. I squirt a tiny bit of lube into my palm and spread it all over my length. I've been hard or semi-hard all night since seeing Calvin. I groan as I stretch, reaching for the top drawer of my nightstand, and pull out the clear plastic tube with the vacuum pump attached.

More than a little conflicted.

Sometimes I watch TV in bed while I pump. Sometimes I watch porn. It takes a long time, starting at low pressure, for the shaft to fill out. Almost 30 minutes from the time I slipped it over the head. Most nights I need some kind of mental stimulation to distract me so I can get through the whole thing, but not tonight. Tonight, the theater in my head is playing a captivating marathon of Calvin's hottest appearances in fantasy and, for me, admission is free. All I have to do is close my eyes.

I stop after a half hour to let the blood flow evenly. Circulation is important. After a few minutes of gentle massage, it's right back into the tube. I tell myself it's to prevent shrinkage.

Don't get me wrong; shrinkage is real. The hormones can and would have a permanent effect on my length if I didn't actively stretch it, to say nothing of my ability to achieve and maintain an erection. I like my penis. Nevermind that half the time, I still think I might have it removed. Nevermind that, because of the pumping, I'm longer now than I was when I started. That's not why I do it.

If I'm being honest, that is part of why I do it.

The last five minutes are torture. The pressure is the highest...or maybe lowest? I don't know. Measuring pressure in a vacuum makes my head spin when I'm fully present, and I am out-of-my-mind turned on right now. Either way, the feeling is a frightening kind of intense. God, my cock is like a soda can in there!

Sometimes it feels like what I really want is to not have to hide my cock rather than having a vagina per se. I've had a few (liar) one night stands, and I haven't heard any complaints about my ass. There's no lack of sensitivity. I can achieve pure prostate orgasms without ever having touched myself.

It's not about how thick it gets, or how long it gets. It's about not shrinking. If I even keep it. Which I don't know that I will. I probably will, and fuuuuck this hurts so good.

The very end of the routine is to pull at the tube, while under pressure, and really try to stretch it. Fuck, I can feel it coming. I scoot carefully toward the edge of the bed, grimacing, and reach for my purple dildo. A little bit of lube. I dig my heels down into the bed, lifting my hips up from the sheets just enough to get my arm around underneath and push... oh...

Kit, he says, leaning over me. My knee cradled in the crook of his elbow. Just the sound of him saying my name drives me right up to the edge.

"Oh... Professor... Oh that feels-"

Please. Call me Calvin. He whispers sweetly in my ear, crooning as he takes me, and I can't help but sigh happily. He tells me about the things he wants to do with me. The things he wants to do to me. There are no words; just a torrent of torrid images of our bodies pressed together in endless variation.

"Yes... Oh fuck... Yes."

My arms are exhausted, but it doesn't take much. I don't need to ream myself to get there. Not tonight.

"Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God! Oh My God!" I bite down hard on my lip and groan as I cum, and my legs give out completely. I bounce off the bed, driving the purple silicone even deeper, and my eyes roll back behind the lids. I lose a solid thirty seconds squirming on the bed. Mindlessly flailing.

There's no way I wasn't going to cum from that tonight. Not after that much stimulation. I gently back off the pressure in the tube and slide it off little by little.

I might still opt for the surgery and get rid of it. I'm not sure. Sleep overtakes me before I can make any kind of concrete decision on the matter, and my dreams are beautiful.

***

After a full afternoon of mix and match, I finally settled on a hip-hugging skirt with dark stockings beneath a partially-undone, white button-up shirt, with my hair up in a loose bun. I was going for 'office sexy', and the expression on his face when I walk in says I nailed it. Or that he's having a heart attack.

"Wow," he says, smiling as he stands up. Could still be a heart attack. "You look great."

"Thank you," I squeak. He quickly moves around the table and pulls out my chair for me, and I lose track of my thought processes completely. I grab my lower lip between my teeth and chew lightly as I sit down. My cheeks are absolutely glowing as he helps me scoot the chair in closer. "Thank you," I repeat, with about the same volume. Which is to say almost none.

"Of course," he says, like it was nothing, and sits back down. "I'm serious. You look really great."

"You can stop now." Little bit of copper on my tongue. "My cheeks don't get any redder than this!" It's getting harder and harder to rationalize any of his reaction as a heart attack. I shift, crossing my legs, and try to catch my breath, and it's not until then that I can finally look past his reaction at seeing me. "You look really good too, by the way."

"This? This is just... what I wore to class today." He looks down and shakes his head, smiling politely. "I'm sorry I didn't have time for more. I... I look like I do every day."

"I know," I say, keeping eye contact, and immediately my lip is between my teeth again. This time, it's his turn to blush. Good God, look at me go! "Have you been here long?"

"Nope." He shakes his head, and his chest and shoulders rise in anticipation of a deep breath.

"Okay wait," I interject. "Before you say anything, I have something I need to get out."

"Okay." He says it so easily. I search his eyes, and he just seems so genuinely... nice.

Deep breaths, Kit. Deep breaths. "I am... a... woman..."

"Okay," he says, smiling like I've just told him that the sun is bright.

"But I wasn't... born... this way."

"Okay," he says, smiling just as easily.

"Do you... Did you hear-"

"I heard you," he says, still smiling, and now it's my turn to blush.

"I don't enjoy language policing. Like, I just don't get why I have to be something different than just a woman, you know? I am what I am, and you can just like it or not. The whole cis-trans-fluid thing just, it doesn't... it feels like everyone trying to find a combination of titles to make themselves unique, rather than just being unique. Like they have so little in their lives that they can tie their identity to their genitals, and..." I look up, and he's just smiling. Not like he's amused by me, or condescendingly. "Also, sometimes I babble when I'm nervous."

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