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TS Story

by Tony-B

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© Copyright 2010 - Tony-B - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/m; solo-m; breast; suckling; panties; cd; fem; hormones; oral; cons; X

Story Copyright 2010 Tony-B, All Rights Reserved May not be copied or moved to another website without permission

I am a transsexual.  Been one all my life.  At least as far back as I can remember.

My mother tells me that she kept me nursing at the nipple until I was about 3 years old.  I was born male, but fixed upon breasts very early.  I fixated on them, my therapist tells me, and that led me to where I am today – waiting in a clinic, waiting for sex reassignment surgery.  I’m finally going to be the woman I was meant to be.  And it’s about time!

I don’t remember much about my father.  Practically nothing, really. He died while I was very young, still nursing, in fact.  My mother raised me alone, although she had lots of boyfriends – some good, some bad.  But she was a very lusty woman, and more than once I saw them wrestling in bed, and learned there was nothing wrong in having sex.  “It was all part of life”, my mother used to say.  She used to like being naked and on her knees in front of her various boyfriends and sucking their penises.  She called it “Making love to Peter”.  Now I know that was a euphemism.

Anyway, back to my breast fetish…..

I took great pleasure at suckling my mother’s breast.  I used to sit on her lap and hold onto one during times of stress until she calmed me down.  And, I was allowed to bathe in the tub with her occasionally, playing with her power pillows as she called them until the hot water had cooled.

 Later on, a next door neighbor who was barely a few years older than me, introduced me to her budding breasts, and I transferred my fixation to her firm pillows, and enjoyed playing with them frequently while she baby-sat me.

Strangely, she liked me to play with them while she watched old horror movies on the TV.  She used to say she could get off during the movie, while she moaned and thrashed around on the sofa.  I didn’t know what that meant, but as long as she enjoyed it, I did too.

I remember that eventually I confided in my mother that I wanted to grow my own pair of breasts.  That was when we had the discussion about the birds and the bees.  I was devastated that I could never grow my own breasts.  So badly, I began a non-stop crying binge.  I was inconsolable.  So broken hearted that I couldn’t seem to get over it.  For days, I would just break out crying.  So crushed, that she put me back on her nipple, and from then on, any time I wanted to suck, she would let me.

My mother’s scent was memorable.  It was a soft floral scent, entirely pleasant to me, especially while I nursed at her nipple.  And unusually, she gave my baby-sitter permission to nurse me at any time she wasn’t available.  That was fine by me - I really liked the feeling of a hard nipple between my lips.  I had not progressed to penises yet.

Somewhere along the line, I began to wear mother’s soiled panties from the laundry bin.  She was a creature of habit.  She changed underwear often, so there were always things in the laundry hamper that wouldn’t be missed until Saturday morning when she did the laundry.  So I could almost always find a pair of panties or two to wear overnight while I slept, or under my pillow where I could smell the sweet aroma all night.  Of course I noticed the stains in the crotch of the panties, and not knowing what they were, assumed they were the source of her body scent.

I learned from my sitter, who obviously knew more about it than I, that almost all women stain their panties, which radically raised my interest.

To judge the difference in how women smell, she allowed me to smell her own panties, and I was hooked.  It was a lovely, musky aroma.  It was so strong, I wanted to stick my tongue out and taste it.  I did, and she allowed it.  And that was a session that evening, I’ll tell you.  As I held on to her boobs with both hands, I pushed my face between her legs and madly licked her panties.  She later described how it felt to her, and I wanted that feeling for myself.  It sounded so wonderful, I wanted it.  I wanted a boy to get on top of me, hold me down, and lick my panties until I melted the way my mother used to do with some of her boyfriends.

God!  I wanted to be a girl – a woman – and to experience being under a man both giving and taking pleasure nearly indescribable!

That was the moment I can point to when I became a transsexual.

I didn’t know it then, but that moment would shape the rest of my life.  But I did know it was possible to change sex.  I had read about it being done, and seen a program on TV that described it, showed how it was done, and interviewed a woman who had already gone through it.

I avidly watched the cable TV channels for any little tidbit on the subject, and stored the information for future reference.

I collected a library of videotapes on the subject, and stored them in the back of my closet so they wouldn’t be discovered, and I could watch them over and over, learning every little detail.

I think I was 14 or 15 when I approached the subject with my mother.  We had gone to the local mall to buy me some new school clothes for the coming fall season, and my mom asked me what I wanted to get.  Tentatively, I suggested that I’d really like a dress that I could wear around the house.  I was half expecting a reprimand, and something like “You’re a boy, and boys don’t wear dresses.”

But to my surprise, she took a long moment, looked at me seriously, and said, “I’ve been waiting for this day.”

“I’ve been waiting for this day to come every since you started sneaking my panties out of the laundry basket and wearing them.  I’ve known that sooner or later you’d want to express your feminine side.”

“I guess it was inevitable”, I suggested.

“All right”, she said, “Your first dress, and a few underthings in your own size.  But we’ll have to be discreet – nobody needs to know.”

So, we were off on my first buying trip.  There were many to follow.

The female world is a wonderful world.  There are so many choices, so many things that men just don’t understand.  But I was learning.  First, there was my hair.  I had already started to let my hair grow.  Long hair for boys was the current teen-age fad.  So it was just necessary to trim it a bit, and style it to make a presentable look.  A touch of lipstick gave my lips a bit of color, and mom showed me how to make them look a little pouty.

The dress and shoes fit me pretty well, but my chest was flat as a board.  Well, not really “flat”.    There were two small buds sticking out.  Later on, I learned that I had inhaled lots of female pheromones from smiffing panties, which my body had accepted as low-level hormones.  They were enough to start my body chemistry to edge me towards female adolescence.

After my first dress, we shopped almost every weekend, and always, there was something for Missy – the name I assumed when “en fem”.  Over the next couple of years, I built up a full female wardrobe.  It did bother me that I was not able to support a bra, holding the objects I so desperately worshipped.

But soon, it became obvious that I was a bit “different”, as I spent more and more time in one of my dresses, away from school, and my peers.  So eventually I was transferred into a special school which dealt with all sorts of sexual problems, and under the care of a psychiatrist who specialized in sexual problems.

It was frequently referred to as “The School for Queers”, but we students referred to it as “The School for Queens”.

It was there that I had my first experiences with boys.  I say “boys”, but by then we were young men and women – 18 or so, and ready to experiment with, and experience sex.  My orientation, of course, was female, but more or less, “A girl trapped in a boy’s body”.

What a hackneyed phrase that is.  By that time, my therapy and counseling had firmly set my sexual orientation as female, and heterosexual.  Just with some wrong body parts. Fortunately, hormone treatments, under prescription of my therapist, had turned me into a pretty presentable girl.  Still not too much in the chest area, but there was some development, enough that some of the boys found me attractive.

And, it was known that I did allow “petting”, and “Frenching”.  I.e., they could feel me up, and I would suck cock – or “Making love to Peter” as my mother used to say.

The first boy that touched my bum sent a thrill of pleasure through my body, and I wanted more.  I wanted to wrestle in bed with a man, and give him pleasure.  I know from my therapy that that it was not considered “wrong”, but not socially acceptable.  Nevertheless, it was a validation that I was on the right path in seeking sex reassignment surgery.

So here I sit, waiting.  My sex reassignment surgery is tomorrow morning.  After that, I’ve got to wait six to eight weeks while my body, and new parts heal, and then I’m going to fuck every man in sight.  I’m going to be a sex slave – more than a sex slave even – a plaything for men.  And I’m going to be happy doing it.  Happy and fulfilled.  I’m going to be right where I belong.  I’m going to be kept – Sex and submission go together, and I’m going to experience every bit of it.

Thank you, mom.  Best wishes on your birthday.  Your daughter…..



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