The Life of Janice

When she died, I was lost.

Drifted in a haze of sorrow.

I don't remember when it first started, but I would take a piece of her clothing to bed with me to find comfort, to help me sleep.

A scarf, a dress, a shirt she used to wear.

It did bring comfort, a way to deal with the loss.

I don't remember when I started wearing the clothes, only that it felt better to have her things close.

Those were the early times, when the fog slowly dissipated and I was able to find some peace.

God, I missed her.

Janice's Story.

Part One:

After a while I had grown accustomed to wearing her things, living in them, being in them.

She was becoming a memory but her clothes seemed so alive, so vibrant, something I could feel, experience.

I had crossdressed during my teen years, It was a fantasy that I indulged, but after a while and as with life, things and desires fade.

When I sought comfort, I found her clothes as a satisfactory substitute.

It felt like a warm blanket that I could wrap myself with.

I would sleep in her things, spend my days in her things under my clothes, I was okay just having her near.

I worked from home, had little family, I was free to be as I wished to be, so I spent most of my time wearing the clothes, living life, finding happiness.

I was certainly melancholy, but not depressed, I loved the fabrics, the cuts, the way a good dress hangs from your hips and makes you feel free.

I really did love the clothes, her clothes, but I started to appreciate the way the female clothing made me feel.

Feel real.

...

When I started shopping for clothes that fit better, more suited to my size, I felt as if a burden had been lifted. I was free to explore this new area of my life. The packages would arrive and I would learn, often the hard way that some female clothing just isn't suited well for the male form. It took some time and I was patient and I found female clothes that suited me.

After a while, I had constructed an extensive wardrobe and a regiment of self care that lead to a more female life.

I would spend hours masturbating and exploring my sexual identity. Lounging on the bed dressed and aroused, discovering how my body reacted to this new form.

I don't remember when I started referring to myself as Janice, but it fit, it fit well and I owned the name, Janice and I merged.

Janice's identity became my driving force, my purpose. I'd spend hours, days even, refining her make up, her style, her look.

I became Janice and I was happy.

I did have to attend occasional business obligations and when I did, I would go in my male form. Remembering how to act, how to speak. It was an old habit and I raised no suspicions that underneath the suit and tie I was, in fact Janice, a beautiful, sexual being. I performed well in the world as a man, but every moment in that world felt like a lie, a performance to appease the world and it's structure.

Once home, after my 'normal' obligations had been fulfilled, I stripped that costume off and relaxed, indulged Janice in full regard. Long flowing skirts, lingerie that felt more comfortable than any suit and tie could ever provide. Janice lounged, relaxed, and was comfortable in her skin and her clothes.

I was petite, not a manly frame by any measure, and that lend itself to exercising the life of Janice. I was careful when I worked out to not develop the male body, but to thin my waist, and hips and work on the female form. My life had become the life of Janice and I worked hard to make that life the best it could be.

When the 'normal' world intruded, I would act accordingly but underneath that façade I would be the best Janice I could be.

When the day was over, I would lounge and masturbate and penetrate and see what my body could do, my new body, Janice's body. The self sex was often magnificent, probing, deep, enlightening, and I did everything I could to be as Janice as I could. Bliss.

Bliss has a funny way of turning your world upside down, as I was soon to discover.