Sheer Beauty

This story was written for the 750 Word Project 2024, below this line are exactly 750 words:

I stroll beachside with my dress shimmering in a gentle breeze and I sense myriad eyes upon me, yearning for a glimpse of the treats that lie within. The garment clings to my body, hinting at my delicate breasts and pert arse, and fragments of light seep through the sheer fabric, stoking the fires of desire.

I am confident in my beauty, reinforced as the gazes of men and women alike follow my direction. The appeal of a perfect feminine form cannot be denied.

I have a secret.

The dress brushes against my hardened nipples and I know that the man to my left is perfectly angled to spy the teardrop of my bosom through cleft folds. A couple passes, and I know without looking that the male cranes to gaze at my derrière. The winds gust from nowhere, revealing my panties to sate his hunger. Both of our hearts are racing.

I face the earth to avoid detection and demurely pat down the fabric. My hands glide across my waist, hips and thighs as the dress returns to modesty. My own hands pique my longing for touch.

It is a secret that invokes excitement in some and disdain in others.

I can sense that nobody around me today knows. The dress is too modest. But in more revealing attire, I love to display my little bulge. Sometimes I see their eyes dart down and back to meet mine and I cannot resist a wink. A secret shared is a trust formed.

Eligible men everywhere vie for my attention. Handsome men, savagely hunting beauty. Do they even know what they seek? A companion, a trophy, a hole?

I have a cock.

When my secret is revealed, some pursue me even more aggressively. But I do not return their affection. I wonder how they would feel to learn that the masculinity that they offer is not what women truly want.

I have no plans to further my transition. I am ideally positioned in no-man's land. My breasts are perfectly formed handfuls of pleasure, my skin is silk, my thighs are milk. My member is modest, and beautiful on my body.

I am not a threat.

At first the sisterhood treats me with suspicion, lest I vie for the limited talent on offer, but they need not fear. I do not compete on those terms. Male attention is intoxicating -- the gifts, the compliments, the desperation, but it fails to turn me on.

Muscular strength, power and dominance might offer surface appeal. What I have to offer is exactly what women crave: an affectionate touch, a delicate caress, a common understanding. With a cock to satisfy carnal desires.

It is women that I adore.

I love the aesthetics of women. Their scent. Their smile. Their body. When the penny drops and the connection is made, we fit like a hand in a glove.

I love the soft pitch of a girl's voice. I love to get lost in their tangle of hair. I love the sweet breath that we share. I love the sensation of my tongue on their flesh, and theirs on mine. I feel the rapture of their embrace. Like peas in a pod, we belong together.

We merge as equals. No-one comes first and no-one comes last. We epitomise peer-to-peer coupling. There is no intimidation in our union, and we can be ourselves. Vulnerable, honest and open. No games. Nothing to hide.

I dream of perfection.

I pass a cute girl in a skirt, hand adorned with an engagement ring and she scowls. I blow a kiss to send my intent and she smiles. Perhaps she knows.

I imagine us together in perfection. Two painted mouths with exploring tongues, forty perfect nails, four bare legs entwined, two pairs of breasts pressed hard together in contact.

I picture our naked bodies, glistening with a sheen of exertion, bare skin slipping. I see her wet beckoning pussy and my hard shaven cock hovering at her entrance. We have the best of all worlds and an attraction that transcends gender.

The thought arouses and I detect my dress deformed by my growing bump. She knows.

I am what I am.

People are made of contradictions and I am no exception. Contrasts make us interesting. I'm a submissive dominant. A female man. A dreamy nightmare. A catch you can't keep. An uneven triangle with a lust for women but desired by men.

I love who I am and I love who I love.