A photograph of a flower hangs on the other side of the room, taunting me. The petals push softly into the lens, curling back on themselves on the tips. The black and white blossom rests on the dark, graceful contours of a wooden slab.
I was never fond of photographs. For the longest time I suspected it was that the camera lied, that the light would never hang so perfectly as to cast a shadow to etch every fiber and tissue in trembling beauty; that the leathery feeling of those petals existed in that singular, fictional moment. I thought I wanted to reach through their looking glass and caress the wooden grooves with my own fingers, that I wanted to see the flower for with my own eyes and from every angle, savoring every drop of pink-white radiance that I could squeeze from it.
But, as I’ve stared into the borders of that picture frame night after night, the true cause of my resentment gradually came into focus. I hated being something separate from the flower in that crystalline moment. I yearned to be the delicate fold of a single petal, a white curve emerging from the shadowy heart of the flower.
This abnormality, of course, did not limit itself to innocent pictures of birds and butterflies. I satisfied myself with domineering power fantasies for a while, if only in the brief stretch of my emerging sexuality. The same unconscious impulse quietly crept in. Before I even realized it, I was longing to be the actress. I wanted her aching, squealing moans to be my own. I wanted her twitching, rose red lips to be mine. The arching of her back, the steady bouncing of her hips, the passive glimmer of submission in her eyes – all mine.
All of this rushes through my head as I once more go through the ritual, half submerged in the bathtub, of driving every follicle of hair from my legs. After the last stroke of the razor, I lean back in the tub, waiting for the timer on my phone to sound. I’m supposed to be watering plants every night this week while my neighbor is out on a business trip.
In spite of my dread of having to leave the house and do something, the alarm goes off. I examine my freshly shaven body in the mirror as I dry myself off. I indulge myself with a flirtatious pose and wink, shivering with dainty satisfaction before going to get dressed.
One last bit of fantasy awaits me before I head out: a thin, red pair of panties. Their frilly edges feel divine on my still-tender legs. A strange sense of subdual settles over me as the hem wraps snugly over my hips. Every stretch and tug of the fabric ekes a knowing, satisfied smile out of my lips. Even in the secrecy of my own private world it drives me wild. Each shifting brush of fabric against my skin demands more of that feminine euphoria.
Over my little secret I wear a pair of jeans and a button-up shirt, which can only slightly diminish my sensual delight. I made my way down the hallway with guileful nonchalance, even though there was hardly a chance of anyone seeing me at this hour.
I opened the door to a surprise. There was a woman already inside the apartment, searching through a few drawers.
“Excuse me,” I call out in a voice that could hardly be described as authoritative. Sometimes I wonder if my own insolvency of command is another contributor to my fixation. Nevertheless, I continue “What are you doing here?”
“Oh hey, sorry,” she calls back, glancing over before prying a new drawer open and rummaging through its contents. “I promise I’m not a burglar. I’m Mark’s niece. Who are you?”
“My name is Oliver, I live down the hall,” I explain, “I’m watering Mark’s plants for the week.” I pause. “So wait, what exactly is it that you’re doing here?”
“He wanted me to find a flash drive for him and send him some of the files, because I guess he’s one of the two people on the planet who still use flash drives,” she says before slamming the drawer shut. “Can you help me out with this really quick?”
I stroll over to the kitchen where I get a closer look at her. She’s pretty, maybe mid twenties as far as I can make out. Her warm brown hair is tied into a tight bun at the back of her head, revealing the sharp frame of her jaw. The sharp cut of her cheekbones cast twin shadows down her face in the white light of the kitchen. I catch her stealing a look at me as I dig through yet another drawer of junk to no avail. Her eyes are a penetrating shade of blue. In even that fraction of a moment her gaze feels like a magnifying glass pointed directly at me. I become important, but only important enough for study.
I steal glances at her dress in return. The loose, floral-patterned fabric tapers into her waist before curving out into her hips and finally ending its cascade just above her knees. I wonder what material it is, how the skirt feels swaying along her thighs when a breeze meanders by; how it would feel on my legs. The fantasizing continues to spiral as my hands wander through a cabinet. What kind of bra is she wearing? I would love to have a bra tightly clasped around my chest right now, reminding me of my true nature.
“Is that it?” I ask as my eyes settle on a small, bright shape on top of the fridge.
“It looks like it.” She turns back to me with a restrained grin, “Hey, are you doing anything after this?”
“No, I have nothing planned at least,” I admit.
“Want to come back to my place?”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/gbaejy/crossdressing_confessions_part_i
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