Saturday, January 13, 2018

Something my husband wrote to me today which struck me as particularly funny. Well, the way he put it was funny. I'd heard similar from many of the married guys who used to come see me. I never make the same mistake. I never  take my husband for granted. When people wonder why a guy would ever choose to be with a transgirl when there are so many genetic girls out there…well, this is part of the answer.


In my not so humble opinion, there's definitely no better wife or girlfriend than a sissywife or sissy girl.
CIS wives seem to have a natural and cultural proclivity for being miserable conniving cunts who put their hubbies last, behind "the kids", "my mother", "my family", "my friends", the mailman, the parking lot attendant, the dog groomer, etc.

Sissy girls know that they exist to serve daddy's needs and desires and taking care of daddy is the most fulfilling thing to do.


Monday, December 11, 2017

Fairy Tales I’d Like To See Rewritten With an Actual Fairy as the Heroine

Sleeping Beauty

A long time ago, a King and a Queen had a child after many years of futile trying. She was the most beautiful, the most delightful, the happiest little girl anyone had ever seen. They called her Rose.

The King was so overjoyed and so proud of his beautiful new daughter that he decided to celebrate with a great feast. So many people were invited that when it came time to invite the Kingdom’s thirteen wisest crones only twelve places were left at the table. Whoever was in charge of the invitations fucked up royally. One wise crone had to be left out. So they excluded the most amenable, least obnoxious crone of the bunch, figuring she’d understand.

Well she didn’t. She was sick and tired of her good nature being taken for granted. She’d had it with being the reasonable, undemanding, understanding crone. She crashed the party just as her twelve colleagues were bestowing their magical gifts on the pretty child. Seething with anger, she said that Rose ought to enjoy her life as a pretty girl while she could, because at the age of thirteen, bang, the girl was going to prick her finger on a thorn and find herself changing against her will. No more sugar and spice and everything nice. She was going to change into a boy!

Of course, this upset everyone. They were aghast not only at the violence of the curse but that it had come from the heretofore sweetest old grandmotherly crone in the kingdom. But there was still one crone left who hadn’t given her magical blessing and she saw an opportunity to advance her cause with the King. She couldn’t undo the curse already cast by her crone colleague, but she could soften it. She confirmed that, yes, unfortunately, Rose would now have to live some of her life as a boy but it wouldn’t have to be forever. The boy part of her life would be like a great waking dream from which she might awaken once again as a pretty girl. If only she could get a handsome Prince to fall in love with her and kiss her while she was still a boy…

Well, that hardly seemed like much of a consolation! What were the odds of that ever happening?! It seemed in spite of the good crone’s blessing, Rose would be destined to live her life miserably as a boy, no matter what, unhappily ever after.

Well the King did what any King, or for that matter, good father does. He tried to take every possible precaution to insure that Rose never pricked her finger on a thorn. He employed a massive army of gardeners to scour his kingdom and clip from every rosebush every thorn, which was a hell of a lot of thorns, thorns by the truckload, and all these thorns were buried outside the palace walls in a great thorn landfill, cordoned off with fences and scary-worded signs, where Rose was forbidden ever to go.

Of course, even this vigilance was fated to fail in the end. It always does. One day, during her thirteenth year, while the king and queen were not at home, Rose went poking around the palace, snooping into places she had never been before.  Wow the palace was more humongous then she imagined! She eventually came to a wooden door that was normally secured but this day had a key in its lock. She couldn’t resist turning the key and behind the door she climbed a narrow staircase that led up into an old tower. There she came upon a gloriously romantic bedchamber and an ancient chambermaid arranging the most amazing bouquet of flowers Rose had ever seen.

“What are those beautiful flowers,” Rose asked.

The old crone said, “Why they are roses, dear.”

“Roses! I’ve never seen roses quite like that!”

The crone smiled and thought to herself, that’s because you’ve never seen a rose with thorns, you silly little bitch. She chuckled in a grandmotherly way, with a grandmotherly twinkle in her eye. “Would you like to have one?”

“Oh yes! More than anything!” Rose exclaimed.

The old witch pulled the largest, reddest, prettiest one from the vase and Rose, having never encountered a flower with a thorn, took hold of it without looking carefully along the stem, and, thereby, pricked herself. She immediately fell into a swoon and by the time the King and Queen returned, she was found lying in bed, unconscious, a teenaged boy in the first flush of puberty dressed incongruously in girl’s clothes.

Well the Queen fainted dead away and the King went off his rocker in a rage. No son of his was going to be a panty-wearing fag, etc. No one in the kingdom was ever permitted to mention that Rose—who they now called Rob—had been anything other than a red-blooded American boy. Even if what he really looked like now was a skinny, prissy, bookish effeminate androgyne dressed awkwardly in clothing that would have befit any other boy of his age.

And that’s how things remained. Rose felt like she was living in the Twilight Zone. Everyone insisted on calling her Rob and referring to her has he or him. They expected her to like the stuff that boys liked, to do the things that boys do. And no one expected her to “act like a man” more than her father. Couldn’t he see that she was still Daddy’s little girl? Even worse, perhaps, was the way her mother now acted. She seemed to be so proud to have a son, but her pride was a great burden to Rose because she knew it wasn’t based on the truth! How could no one see that she was really a girl!? It was as if she and everyone around her had fallen asleep and were living in a bad dream.

Meanwhile around the entire kingdom a hedge of thorns grew—all the thorns that had been cut off all the roses by the King’s gardeners all those years—had sprung up to form an impermeable barrier, like barbed wire. Anyone who tried to climb it was inextricably impaled there and died a slow, miserable death. What’s more, the king had posted ferocious guards with dogs outside the kingdom to keep out anyone who might try to sneak inside. It was rumored that there were handsome princes out there who actually liked girly boys like his son. And the King would have none of that! He wanted to keep that knowledge away from Robert at any cost!

Most of these girly-boy loving princes were understandably deterred. But as it happened, one did rise to the challenge. He was a rough-around-the-edges sort of Prince from a kingdom called Brooklyn. He’d seen an ad on Craigslist that the boy had surreptitiously posted online like a cry for help from within the barricaded castle. The prince decided to come to the rescue. For all the doom and gloom predictions, this latest Prince didn’t find it any trouble at all to reach Robert. He began to think all the horrendous tales he’d heard were nothing but a lot of old wives tales. Suburban baloney. In Brooklyn, he had guys like the King and his henchmen for lunch. Thorns, guards, dogs…fuhgettaboutit!

There was no barbed wire. No armed guards. He met with no resistance as he climbed up the stairs to the tower-bedroom. Everything was surprisingly easy. Maybe almost too easy? For the first time, he was on his guard. He knocked on the door and when it opened he didn’t see an awkward unhappy boy but a beautiful princess just waiting to be awakened by the kiss of a real man. And he was just the real man for the job.

With one deep smooch, the girly boy began to open up, like the tightly furled bud of a rose that had been waiting all winter for the first touch of spring sunlight to blossom. The Prince took the boy in his arms and kissed her again and then again for good measure. And just like that she was once again the girl she had been from the start. She was once again the beautiful feminine Rose.

“Go put on something pretty,” the Prince said, “and let’s split this depressing hell-hole.”

They came down from the tower hand in hand, Prince and Princess. The King and Queen weren’t too happy about it, but what could they say? What was done was done. The curse they were living under had been broken as well. Slowly, but surely, the fog over their memories was lifting and they both began to remember back to an earlier time when their son had indeed been their daughter. Or at least, they thought they remembered such a time. She sure as hell never seemed to be much of a boy, that’s what the King kept telling himself over and over. It was as if everyone were waking up from the same weird dream together.

Still, the Prince and Princess thought it best to put the memory of this unhappy time and place as far behind them as possible. Families sucked and they had a way of dragging you back into the past so that you never changed. So the Prince took the Princess back to Brooklyn where they were married and then he took her even further away to a magical emerald kingdom called Seattle and they lived happily ever after.

Sunday, December 3, 2017

You Are Always Here —> x

When you’re walking down the street
holding your life like a nothing-balloon
above your head, your allegiance
to the fork is unassailable.

I was never so spatially challenged
that I couldn’t find anything better
than an axe in a liquor store.
I was never that naïve.
I believe in my own disbelief.
I believe in a few things of my own losing.

I believe in the acne-scarred skin
of the orange I dig my thumbs into
on a Saturday afternoon, the accidental claw
of the cat leaping from my lap, the oxygen tent
in which lies crash-damaged the alien

that used to be my father. The radio
issuing a burbling stream of alphabet
over my cupped hands. And yet
I thirst. There’s something
I never said before, there must be.

I imagine all the children I never had
thanking me for sparing them this life
my kiss of death. You’re welcome, I whisper,
and pull the darkness back
over their bright little heads, still singing.

Oh my darling Brussels sprouts!

The moon,
bitter as an aspirin.

My black lips
talking like this without me.

Friday, November 10, 2017

If you're looking for sissy/tranny porn, you're in the wrong place. Or you're in the right place but at the wrong time. I was more interested in that earlier this year and back in 2016. I'm pretty much bored with it now. There are tons of other places to find people like me strutting around in panties, sucking cock, or taking it up the ass. I think that I've contributed my share, here and other places, to the deplorable downmarket view that people generally have towards the transgendered. My intentions were otherwise, but the results, I suspect, were indistinguishable from those that fetishize and sexually objectify us, making the case that we're nothing but freaks fit to fuck in secret, but otherwise to ostracize, stigmatize, criminalize, and delegitimize from everyday society. 

I suppose I'll post here if I have any trans-specific things to show or say, but otherwise I'll be concentrating my efforts on my main art/lit blog Sparrowmuffin
I don't know why I do it. I guess so that I never allow myself to forget what "real" people are really like. So I don't get all over-emotional and sad whenever I hear that 25 people were shot to death in a church in Texas or another 80 folks were washed into a Louisiana river during a hurricane. But I often read the comment sections of stories dealing with transgender issues. I like to get a sense of what I'm up against when it comes to simply living my life in this so-called "sane" society. Here are a sampling of comments from a story about the transphobic  pedophiliac Republican candidate for senator Roy Moore. 

‪If someone thinks they're a rock or a tree, they have a mental illness. The same with someone who thinks they are another gender. DNA, not a person's choice, determines sex. If you don't believe science.... look in the pants.‬

‪unless you know what it's like to be a man with young female children or a grandpa like me with grandaughters you can't possibly understand why I don't want a MAN with a penis, dressed like a WOMAN in the bathroom with my precious little ones, or my wife for that matter.

‪Rosemary DeLeeuw Bolton‬
‪We have more mentally confused and unstable walking around us. ‬We allow them to continue their delusional choices, and we encourage it.‬

‪I see. Having transgender compulsions is not twisted, but Judge Moore is? Got it. You voted for Hillary.‬

If some Democrat wakes up tomorrow and claims that pedophiles are normal now that will not make it so. Some are already claiming it. That day will soon be here, folks!‬

‪More transgenders die by their own hand than are murdered by others. And, no, there are no transgender success stories in recorded history. There may be stories that you've read in re-edited history. Like Lincoln hooking up with gay blacks at raves in the white house basement, or Columbus was transgender... because there's no evidence that it didn't happen?‬

James Early‬
‪Trannys are mentally disturbed, they belong locked up, behind bars and tall walls with razor wire, with the bums, drug addicts, and career alkys (chronically "homeless" LOL).‬

‪And before anyone claims Black trannies are killed more often there's a reason for THAT. It's because they dress as "women", wear makeup, then turn tricks, when their "john's" find a limp noodle between their thighs rather than a cannoli they are pissed off and don't want people to think they are fags.‬

Knunya Binnez · Pinko Commie Brainwashing Academy
‪Trannys are deranged fruitcakes that need mental health services. The worst thing anyone can do, is what the bed wetting liberals insist we do. Which is coddle their delusions and pretend it's normal. Then the media ignores the suicide statistics.‬

So when I hear of some "tragedy" somewhere entailing the massive loss of lives of people I don't know, before I get to feeling all weepy, I remind myself that many of them could very well be people like the people above and my own life will be all the safer and much improved without them on the planet. When I'm asked to contribute to their "relief," I remind myself of their ignorance, intolerance, and knee-jerk disdain of people like me. Of how they ostracize and stigmatize us and force us to the outskirts of their society and then blame us when we end our lives because we're so "unstable". As if they—or anyone—could live under those conditions of exclusion and isolation, as if isolating and stigmatizing and scapegoating someone weren't the surest way of driving someone insane. 

Sorry, I'd like to be, but I'm not Jesus, I can't love my enemies. I'll save my tears for those I know deserve them. When we're asked to rally around the flag, to stand for it, to salute it, and all the rest of that manipulative, communal horseshit, I'll remain seated. I'll take a knee. I have no stake in this society—not yet, anyway. That much is clear to me. If I'm not good enough to piss in your toilets or to get married or work beside you like any other person, then I really don't give a damn about your wars, your natural disasters, or your children, who I've every reason to fear, with you as their example, will grow up as nasty and stupid and dangerous and bigoted as you. 

Maybe I'm looking at the glass half-empty. Maybe I'm not giving enough credit to those with open minds and open hearts. But I can't help but often feel  that the glass is a lot more than half-empty. That there's barely enough at the bottom  to wash out the bitter taste of poison that the majority of people in this world leave in my mouth. I hate for other people like that to determine anything I do in my life, but I find that as depressed as they make me, they encourage me to go on, not to commit suicide, if only out of spite, to deny them the satisfaction of saying "See? I told you so." 

No, if I were to kill myself it wouldn't be because of their hostility, ignorance, intolerance, and violence or even my difficulty in trying to fit myself into a world they try so hard to exclude me from. But I wouldn't want them to misinterpret my suicide as a result of a mental disorder, which they no doubt would, refusing to see their responsibility in making life, which is hard enough for all of us, that much harder for people like me. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction. The smug, self-righteous bastards. In spite of themselves, they encourage me to live on. To some degree, in spite of myself, I live on. I don't just piss in their toilets. Simply by surviving,  I piss on on all the bigoted notions they hold dear. Thank goodness, I have more of a reason to live than that, but it gives me a satisfying  extra incentive

Thursday, November 9, 2017

Robot Man vs. Devil Ham

We were waiting for something better
but kept coming upon situations
of our own losing.
Well we’ll cross that bridge
when we run from it
and stitch ourselves a kite
from scraps of our own skin.
Now we’re waiting for the wind to rise.
Otherwise we played that hand
a dozen ways from Sunday.
It’s hard to convince anyone
you’re a vegetarian
clutching a drumstick 
to beat the band.
I felt like one big erasure
walking into that room
everyone by comparison a panda
or something better.
But I did it anyway
as if it were something to crow about
& it is
& it isn’t.
I felt like that part of a person
that doesn’t come back from a moon launch
but floats around out there orbiting
other stuff that doesn’t come back
from other people.
Orbiting, schmorbiting.
Otherwise known as frozen peas.
But, alas, my x's will tell you different.
My o’s, too.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

=21st Century Fox=

I wrote this story many years ago. I'm reposting "21st Century Fox" here because of all the stories I wrote at the time I feel it's the most ambitious and the one most deserving of a continued life. It's posted on Fictionmania, but basically buried there. At the time, I was writing under the name of "suki." It was the first "female" name I used. I can't offer definitive proof I wrote this story (well, actually I probably could if it came to that. I suspect it's entered into the legal record of my divorce proceedings as damning evidence of my moral, sexual, and psychological debility, but that's another story). As I'm not seeking any financial renumeration for the story and it has long existed in the pubic domain, proof of authorship or issues of copyright infringement aren't issues. I'm perfectly happy to give "suki" all the credit for this story.

21st Century Fox

I wake up naked with the sun streaming through the big window of my room.  There are no clocks or alarms anywhere. I have no idea what time it is. Time  is unimportant here. I am allowed go to sleep and wake up whenever I please.  I am encouraged to take naps whenever and wherever I feel like it. I throw my arms overhead and stretch my body. I stare down over my large breasts, my flat tummy, the smooth v between my thighs. I take it all in from my long legs all the way down to my pretty painted toes. I feel warm and sleepy and horny in the warm sunlight. I can feel the sudden rush of pleasure from whatever it was they put in my brain flooding me with approval.

"Yes Daddy," I say out loud. 

I am not embarrassed.

Instead I am proud to please Him. His eyes are everywhere. I see one right above me on the ceiling over the bed. I rub my left breast with one hand and squeeze the nipple. I let my other hand run over my flat tummy and with my  middle finger trace the moist slit between my thighs. I play with myself under Daddy's benevolent gaze for as long as I can stand it and then I roll over on my knees, raise my rump, and slip two fingers inside my new pussy. All I need is something to fill my bottom and mouth and I will be complete. But for now, this is will have to do. My body gives a little shudder and I gasp as a series of  pleasurable convulsions shake me. I don't take long to come. It only takes thirty seconds or so. That is the average time it takes for a guy to come. It is the one thing I have left of my old self. 

I feel guilty saying "old self."  Whatever they did to my brain causes certain thoughts to make me feel very sad and give me terribly painful tummy aches.

The thought of my "old self" is one of these bad thoughts. The wonderful feelings I had just a moment ago are gone. Now I feel like I am going to be sick. I roll onto my side hugging myself. I can't help it. Sometimes the thoughts just come on their own and there is no way to stop them until you have them and then it’s too late and you already feel sick. A girl who used to be my best friend put this particular thought I’m having in my brain. I don't remember her name even though we both came here  together and she was once my best friend.

Oh!!! Another tummy cramp. 

"I'm sorry Daddy."

I'll tell the truth. The truth is that I can remember her name if I let myself. But I must try to block it out of my mind. I try not to think of her name  because if I do I get the cramps again.  It's just that it is so darn impossible sometimes. I haven't seen her since they took her away one night  from the room next door to mine. She was struggling and shouting and trying to fight the Attendants. Most of the girls knew better than to get up, but I recognized  her voice and was curious what was happening. I walked lazily to the doorway.  It was very 
hard to watch. 

She wouldn't obey them. They finally had to use some kind of device with a small blue light on it. They touched it to her body and she suddenly fell to the floor kicking and flopping around. She lost  control of herself and pee-peed all over the floor. It was terribly embarrassing. They finally brought a stretcher and carried her away. A little  later one of the Grey Uniform girls came and cleaned up the mess. I went back to bed and fell asleep. The next morning I remembered vaguely what happened at breakfast when I didn't see my friend in the cafeteria. We never saw her again.  Sometimes I still feel bad for her. But I know it was her own fault whatever happened to her. She tried to cause trouble by getting us other girls to think about the past.

I shouldn't even be thinking this because it’s giving me a bad bad tummy ache. But I have to be honest. I have to confess. When I confess, no matter what I confess, the cramp in my tummy eases up. So long as it’s the truth. That’s what Daddy says. 

"Thank you Daddy."

It is always best to be honest with Daddy. He has eyes everywhere. He can see right into your soul.

When I think about that, I shudder. Even in the sunlight.

Sometimes it can be scary to be loved so much. I don't want to let Him down.  I don't want to be a Grey Uniform girl.

I swing my long smooth legs out of bed. I don't have to worry about making it up. The Grey Uniform girls do that. They do everything for us. We are different from they are. We are the good girls. We are the ones that Daddy loves. 

I walk almost on tiptoe to the pretty bathroom. It is necessary to walk like this because of the elegant arch they gave to each of my tiny feet. My small plump toes descend perfectly from large to small. The permanent nails are painted red. 

It is difficult to walk on my new feet without wearing high heels. Either way, with shoes or without, I have to take tiny steps. It is impossible to walk fast or to play  tennis, for instance. It is impossible to run at all. But why would I need to run? There is no place to run to.

Daddy is watching over me. 

I sit down to go pee-pee and when I get up the bowl flushes automatically. I know going to the bathroom is not something other girls talk about. But I have to tell everything. That's the way it is with me. There is no detail of my life that is hidden. I am encouraged to speak as freely and honestly to you as I speak to Daddy. Pretty soon everyone will be my Daddy. That is the goal. That is what they say when they say anything at all. Mostly, though,  they say not to worry about anything. That everything will be taken care of.  That Daddy loves us. So that is what I try to do. I try to do exactly as they say.

I step into the shower stall and the water comes on automatically. It is preset to start very warm. It is the perfect temperature. I know then to use the soap on my body. I wash my long, shiny, dark hair. The soap comes from a dispenser. It smells like pomegranate. It was determined that the soap scent that went best with my body chemistry was pomegranate. That's why I was given this kind of soap. Some girls have other soap scents: rose, peach, honeysuckle. I love pomegranate. It makes me feel sexy. 

I love to spread the soap on my breasts and over the firmly-packed cheeks of my  girly bottom. I especially enjoy soaping along the hairless v between my legs. After I'm lathered up, I let the warm water gently massage my body, the pulse of it set  to loosen and relax me. It feels so wonderful that I slip two soapy fingers inside me. I can’t help myself. I look to the ceiling and smile vacantly into one of Daddy's many, many eyes.

The shower imperceptibly goes from very warm to lukewarm to cold. When it is colder than I can stand it I step out. It is a good thing that the water gets cold or I don't think I would ever know when my shower was over. It feels so good. I might stand under the water far too long. I would miss other important things I am supposed to do. That is just one way that Daddy takes care of me. He thinks of everything.

The moment  I step out of the shower the water turns off and I stand in a special cubicle where warm air vacuums the moisture from my body. Overhead a heat lamp glows read to make sure I don't get cold. When the vacuum turns off I  am warm and dry.

I sit at my vanity and brush the sleep from my hair. First I look at my face in the mirror with pleasure. I am not embarrassed to say this. I cannot pretend to be modest. That would be dishonest. The truth is that I look at my face for a long, long time and admire it. I am very beautiful. 

I was given this beautiful face and I am meant to enjoy it and feel proud of it. I will tell you what I see when I look into the mirror. My straight dark hair falls to just above my butt and my bangs are cut in a blunt line above my eyes. My eyes are dark and almond shaped and very exotic looking. They are enhanced by eyeliner permanently tattooed along the edge of my eyelids. My mouth is a full-lipped cupid's pout made even sexier by tattooed lip-liner and red ink. My nose is tiny and just slightly turned up. It, too, is very cute. I have wonderfully high cheekbones and a dainty little chin. I look nothing like I used to look before. No, that isn’t exactly true. I look like the beautiful sister of myself. The sister I never had.

When I smile, my teeth are perfectly straight and white. I have a dimple in each cheek. Is it because of my perfect teeth and pretty dimples that I love to smile? Or is it just because I’m happy? I don’t know. Something pleasant is released in my brain when I smile so I do it as often as possible. I do it even when things hurt me. I smile and I immediately feel better no matter how bad the bad thing is that has happened. 

But mostly I smile like I'm smiling now. 

For no reason at all. 

Except for the reason I said. That it feels good to smile and I look so beautiful. 

I give my hair one hundred strokes in the morning and one hundred strokes in the evening. The number is one hundred exactly; no more and no less. I make sure I pay careful attention to what I am doing so that I don't lose count. I stare at my face in the mirror as I brush and with each stroke I say what I am supposed to say:

I am Maya180. I am happy. I am a good girl. I love my Daddy.

I am Maya180. I am happy. I am a good girl. I love my Daddy.

I am done with my hair and I didn't lose count even once! I didn't get any bad feeling at all! I am getting better at paying attention. That is good. It is good to pay attention to small details. I don't know why. Daddy says so, I guess that’s why. I only have to pay attention to the small details but I don’t have to worry about the big details. Daddy takes care of those. It is enough to remember to spray on my perfume. That’s a small detail but it’s a very important small detail! My perfume is in a pretty little cut-glass bottle. I am supposed to spray it on all the places I would like to be  kissed. One little spritz in each place. There are so so so many places I would like to be kissed! 

When I think of each of these places it releases a good feeling in my brain. The whisper of the perfume on my wrists, inside my elbows, behind my  knees, in the hollow of my throat, on my painted toes—oh, I told you there  were so many places!—is almost enough to distract me completely with  pleasure. The perfume is a special individualized scent concocted using my very own pheromones. It smells so beautiful. It’s designed to attract Daddy’s and make them want to fuck me. I only wish Daddy could smell it right now and kiss me all over in all my special places. 

Oh well…a girl can dream, can’t she?!

I suddenly feel hungry so I set out for the cafeteria. There is no door to my room. There is no door to any of our rooms. We don't need privacy here. We are all girls and we have no secrets from each other. We have nothing to be ashamed  of. There is nothing we can do that we can't do out in the open. We all do the same things. Besides, Daddy watches over all of us. He is everywhere and He won't let anything bad happen to us. So we don’t need to lock ourselves away in rooms like other women do.

I slip my feet into a pair of high-heel sandals and head for the open doorway. In the hall there are other girls walking to one place or another. They are also in high heels. We all take our time. There is no need to hurry.  

We all walk high up on our toes, our bottoms swaying, our wrists limp and facing outward, brushing the outside of our thighs. It is just the way we walk. We all look very languorous, sensuous, and content. Aside from the high-heels, the other girls are naked like me. We never wear clothes. Why do we need clothes here? Only the Grey Uniform girls wear clothes.

There is only a small line in the cafeteria and I do not have to wait long for my breakfast. Everything operates so smoothly here. A Grey Uniform girl fills a tall paper cup with my special nutrition shake. I tell her I'd like the strawberry flavor today. She takes the cup and goes to the big silver machine and put the cup under the spigot labeled "strawberry." I know that under her Grey Uniform she is beautiful just like me. But her body has to be  hidden because she has known the shame of displeasing Daddy. It must be terrible to have your beautiful body hidden like that. Hidden so Daddy cannot enjoy it. It must be unbearable to know  that Daddy no longer wants to see you.

The Grey Uniform girl comes back with my nutrition drink. She puts a straw in it and hands it to me. Her hair is pulled up in an efficient bun and covered with a grey plastic cap. Her eyes are completely glazed over. Her face is without expression. There is something very disturbing about her. She looks as if she no longer feels either pleasure or the sick feeling. It must be terrible to feel nothing like a Grey Uniform girl. 

I sit at a table and sip my strawberry shake. There are a couple of other girls sitting at the table, too, and we talk about how much we like our shakes. We compliment each other's hair, eyes, breasts, and tummies. We are all very beautiful so there is  no feeling of competition. There is no jealousy. We are all just variations of the same model of beauty. We appreciate the small differences between us without wanting to be any different than we are. We know that Daddy loves each of us equally and for exactly who we are. He loves each of us all the same. We are proud to be who we are. We are all sisters and we are also proud of our sisters' beauty. I love my sisters and I love my Daddy and they all love me. 

I only drink half my shake before I am full. I don't have to finish it. I only need to drink as much as I want. There are no rules about this. I eat when I am hungry and sleep when I am tired. I leave the half-empty cup on the table. One of the Grey Uniform girls will come to take it. I am again glad that I am not a Grey Uniform girl. 

I head for the tanning room.

The tanning room is more like a long hall lined with transparent plastic cocoons. Inside of each one you can see a naked girl baking away. They lie on their backs on a clear lucite platform with the tanning lights above and below them so you don't have to bother turning  yourself over. I walk up to the nearest empty cocoon, slip off my heels, and lie inside. I close the cover and immediately the sunlamps come on. 

The warmth feels good against my naked flesh. On both the front and back of my body I can feel the waves of warm light. It is a sexy feeling to know that all around me other naked girls are lying and dozing as their skin slowly  goldens inside their glass cocoons.   

I keep my eyes closed and I slowly drift off to sleep. I don't have any dreams. I never dream. When I sleep I just sleep and when I wake up I simply wake up. I am supposed to report any dreams I have to my counselor but since I never have any dreams I have nothing to report.  My counselor seems pleased to hear this and that’s matters. Sometimes I wonder where my dreams went.

When I wake up the heat lamps are already fading to a dull orange. They know how much exposure I need. It’s another thing that I don't have to think about it. I watch the bulbs slowly going out until just the filaments are lit. I watch them fade out all at the same time. 

I feel so deliciously toasty and warm but I am not sleepy. I am quite refreshed from my dreamless sleep. Actually I am more than refreshed. I am sexually excited. The warmth and the sleep and the nutrition shake and the  constant eyes of Daddy have made me horny. I can feel the moisture lubricating my hairless slit. It is not embarrassing. It is a beautiful thing to be turned on like I am. There is no reason to hide it or pretend it isn't so or even deny it to myself. It is just a fact. My body knows what it needs. It needs to be fucked. I throw my legs over the side of the cocoon, slip on my heels, and head for the room of fucking machines.

I have to be honest. I always have to be honest. Sometimes there is still the slightest feeling of shame when I go to the room of fucking machines. I don't know why. It is perfectly natural for a girl like me to want to be fucked. It is no different from eating or sleeping. But once in a while there is a small feeling of doubt. It is as if I were doing something wrong to want to be fucked. It is very difficult to describe. What is worse, it makes the fucking less enjoyable because even though the machines make my body feel so good the shame I feel makes my mind sad. I try not to think about it. It's better not to think, I've  found. It is better just to follow my body. My body always seems to know what I really need. Sometimes I wish I didn't have a mind at all. That is one of the good things about the fucking  machines. It doesn't take long while your mounted on one before all your thoughts are gone entirely and all you have left is the deliciously pleasurable feelings arising from your body. I guess that’s what they used to call fucking your brains out.

Many of the fucking machines are already in operation when I arrive. I see the girls mounted on top of them. The room is full of their soft moans, heavy breathing, and sudden sharp cries of passion. Every once in a while a girl cries out that special cry that meant she had reached the ultimate purpose in her life.  It is a very beautiful sound. The most beautiful sound in the world. One by one every girl in the fucking room will cry out like this. Every girl in the fucking room will achieve her ultimate purpose in life. The fucking machines never fail to make a girl cry out that very special cry. 

I climb on top of one of the machines. This time I don't take off my heels. It is understood that Daddy likes to see us getting fucked in our high-heels so we don't take them off when riding the machines. A great deal of the pleasure we get is in being fucked comes from knowing that seeing us being fucked is pleasing to Daddy. 

I straddle the machine and rest my knees on the knee pads and lean forward. I grasp the special handlebar running across the front of the machine. The position reminds me of something in my past that I can’t quite recall and I feel a little bit of the sick feeling again so I try not to remember it. Fortunately the machine immediately starts up, vibrating beneath me, and the feeling goes away in anticipation of the pleasure to come. 

I let out a little gasp as I feel the lubricated rubber cock push its way slowly into my baby-smooth slit. I open my mouth and a second rubber cock slides between my lips. In the background I hear a girl give her special cry of fulfillment. At nearly the same time a third lubricated cock presses itself against my plump little bottom. I am so relaxed and turned on that it slips inside me without any resistance whatsoever. I start to moan.  The special suction cups in which I placed my breasts begin to work on my nipples and I suck greedily on the cock in my mouth as I begin to enthusiastically hump the two cocks penetrating me. 

I am being fucked in just about every possible way. The cocks move quickly in and out and I can feel my breathing and heart rate increase. The fucking machine is relentless. Inhuman. I let out another desperate moan. God, being fucked in my mouth, bottom, and slit at the same time is the best feeling of all. At the same time, I am trying to think of the man to whom I will be married when I leave my home here. All of the girls here have husbands waiting for them when they leave. My husband is supposed to be very rich. That is why he can afford a girl like me. 

They showed me his photograph once and I am supposed to picture him while I am on the fucking machine. It is a little difficult to think of anything right now but I force myself to remember his photograph. He is an older man with white hair and a handsome but very stern face. I close my eyes and try to visualize him as the machine picks up even more speed, fucking me three times at  once, the suction on my nipples growing greater. I grasp the bar tightly until my knuckles are white. It is so difficult to concentrate on anything but the pleasure but I know I must try. 

I know I must try and there is a reward for succeeding. When I picture my future husband the pleasure only increases. I didn’t think it would be possible but it does! There is a good reason for that. The fact is that the man I am to marry looks just like  Daddy! 

It doesn't take long for my orgasm to come. It is only thirty seconds before the cocks release their fluid. I feel it shooting inside me in short, hard, hot jets. I greedily gulp down the salty fluid that fills my mouth as my body  shudders on the fucking machine. I know what I have to say in order to take me over the edge. In order to come I must call out to him. If I don’t I won’t come.  I feel my toes curl inside the high-heeled sandals and I begin lifting myself up and down on the fucking machine as it starts to happen. 

When I can’t stand the build-up any longer, I say the words that will deliver me to my ecstasy. I give my own special cry: “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” I hear my own voice cry that special cry as wave after wave after wave of pleasure rolls through me.

When the last of my orgasm passes, I am left so spent and exhausted on the fucking machine I fall into a light sleep. 

I wake up a little while later and in a pleasantly spacey daze head back to my room for a nap. I take the elevator up to my floor and feel Daddy's eye watching me the whole time. It feels so good to have him watching me. I love knowing that he is always, always there. I am certain he must be proud of the way I performed on the fucking machine. I slip my heels off and lay down on my bed and it doesn't take long at all before I am fast asleep. And that is when something very bad happens. It is something that hasn't happened in a very long time now. For as long as I can remember.  

The last time it happened I must have been my "old self." The bad feeling comes when I think of my "old self," but it is nothing compared to the awful  pain I'm in now. I am curled in a fetal position on the bed, my tummy aching terribly. I am so cold my teeth are chattering. My flesh is hot and sweaty and my heart is thudding uncomfortably in my chest.

What is happening to me?

Am I sick?

Am I dying?

I had dreamed of the Grey Uniform girl who served me my breakfast this morning.  I know that it is forbidden to dream but I didn't do it on purpose. It just came to me. It just happened. But that’s no excuse, Daddy, I know. What's worse, it is forbidden to speak or communicate with a Grey Uniform girl, even in your dreams! Just by talking to a Grey Uniform girl in my dream I have committed an  unforgivable sin. I try to push the dream from my mind but I can't.

I know Daddy can see me this very moment, see me in this anguish, and I'm caught between wondering why He doesn't help me and the even more unthinkable possibility that He doesn’t help me because He doesn't love me anymore. In spite of myself I still remember the Grey Uniform girl in my dream. I know who she used to be in real life. She was my friend Katya360. 

What she had said is all coming back to me in tiny fragments. But each memory causes me to double over in pain as if I were being stabbed from the inside. Each fragment of the dream is like a fragment of jagged glass tearing me up inside! 

Katya360 said she was only trying to help me. But she is lying, lying, lying! She is just jealous that Daddy doesn’t love her anymore. She is trying to get me to betray Daddy! She is trying to make me a Bad Girl like her! Never! Never! Never!

She said she still remembered her "old self" and warned me that I was being brainwashed. She told me that I hadn’t always been a girl. That I had been selected to undergo a special procedure that would turn me into the girl I am now. She tried to remind me of my "old self" and  told me that it was their plan to make me forget my "old self" so that I  would become just what they wanted: a beautiful, happy, mindless slave bride for  whoever could afford me. She told me that with the new century approaching and more and more women taking  advantage of social, economic, sexual, and political equality there would be a shortage of girls like me who’d been born in the old way. That more and more women would refuse to be a Daddy-loving girl like me. She said it was decided that with the advances in medical and psychological technology available it would be possible to make the "ideal" girl. Then she said the most blasphemous thing of all. She said that I was really once a man. That I was once a man like the man I am going to marry. That I was once a man like Daddy!

Oh Daddy, please forgive me. I don’t believe that for a second. Oh Daddy, just saying that nearly made me pass out from the pain of displeasing You!

Katya360 said that it was proven that men knew better how to sexually please another man. The only obstacle to men seeking pleasure from other men was a built in biological repulsion that men had for each other's bodies and the fact that no procreation could result from their union. Therefore it was decided to cull certain inferior men who already had many feminine physical and mental characteristics from the population and turn them into women. 

Since procreation can easily be handled artificially now, there is little biological need for  the standard male-female relationships. Although limited at first to the rich, soon every man will be able to afford an "ideal" girl. Katya360 said many more things of a similar nature: how with more alpha men in the world crime rates would soar, wars would be waged at the drop of a hat, and there would be an unthinkable increase in the alrady endless cycle of bloodshed that has kept the men of the world at each other's throats since the beginning of time. 

I can hardly make sense of any of it. All I know is that what she said is making the bad feelings come and come and come. And yet I still can't stop thinking about all the things that she said. Now I think she didn’t say all these things to me in the dream at all. I think the dream is making me remember things she said to me in secret before she became a Grey Uniform girl. I don’t want to remember them, Daddy, I swear. I don’t want to remember them but I can’t help it. I can’t forget. Maybe if I say them all out loud this one time it will make me forget? Then I won’t feel the Bad Feeling ever again!

Katya360 said she had seen the room where the initial transformations take place. She said she had seen the computer files in which the data of our former lives were recorded and stored. She said a lot of other things I have tried to forget and had forgotten until I'd had this dream. Now the memories are all flooding back and I feel so sick that I wish I would just die if only to end the pain. I feel so sick I can’t speak anymore. I stare up at the ceiling and look away, ashamed, from the small black unblinking eye looking down on me.

"Daddy, daddy," I plead. "Please help me."  

I know that I have to see a Counselor. I just don't know how I am going to be able to get to one in the state I'm in right now. I just lie herein agony, doubled over in sick pain, for I don't know how long. And then just as suddenly as the pain appeared, it vanishes. It was just a dream, I think. It was just a bad dream. No wonder why they don’t want us to dream. Dreams make you feel badly. It is important not to dream. I vow I will never dream again!  It is a silly promise to make because I didn't choose to dream in the first place. But I make the promise anyway. I am a Good Girl. I look up at Daddy's small eye in the ceiling and sincerely promise him that I will never dream again. 

I promise. I want to be a Good Girl, Daddy.

The pain abates a little. Enough, at least, to let me get to my feet. I think I’m feeling stronger now. Thank you, Daddy. Thank you. I nearly weep for joy. Daddy forgives me! Daddy still loves me!

I’ll be a Good Girl from now on, I promise, Daddy.

I feel better and better. I even feel well enough to take a walk!

There are a lot of girls still in the cafeteria. I give them a little wave as I pass by. I put off seeing the Counselor until later. I feel so much better now that it doesn’t seem such an emergency anymore. Instead I decide to get some exercise. We are encouraged to exercise whenever we want but there is no set program. The specially formulated meals and delicious nutrition shakes we are given keep us all in perfect shape. No one ever seems to gain a pound! Still, if some girls want to work off a little excess energy or just want something to do on their downtime there is a pool and an exercise spa where a Personal Trainer will assist you. I prefer to walk. They have a lovely walking trail here. 

The sun is directly overhead and it feels good on my body. It is not quite like the light in the tanning cocoons. It is hard to explain why it feels better, but it does. Trying to look as elegant as possible since I  know that even out here Daddy is watching, I lift each leg one at a time, reach behind me, and slip off my high-heels. It is more difficult to walk without them but I like the feel of the sun-warmed green grass between my bare toes. I love taking long walks around the grounds of the….

Something happens when I try to think of what to call this place. What is it exactly? What am I doing here? I look back at the all-natural glass and wood building with the large pool in back surrounded by beautiful naked girls. I see the glass solarium and the greenhouse and the beautiful gardens. I see the volleyball court where two groups of five girls each are playing in a large pit of sand. I see all this and I wonder what it is I am supposed to call this place. It strikes me as odd that for the first time I have thought about this. Perhaps it has something to do with the dream. I cringe in anticipation of the pain when

I mention the dream, but no pain comes. Instead just an  intense curiosity. I ask myself again. What is this place? Is it a hospital of some sort?  A school? Dare I even think it…a prison? What am I really doing here? 

I am supposed to be getting married soon. I've already seen my husband-to-be. Is this the place girls come to be prepared  for marriage? If so, what a strange thing marriage is. I look up at one of the many eyes among the trees surrounding me. 

"Daddy," I ask. "What is this place?"

There is no answer. Daddy must not think it’s necessary for me to know. Not yet, anyway. Daddy will tell me when it’s time, when He thinks I’m ready, when I can handle the knowledge. I must have faith. I must believe in Daddy. 

I do! I do! 

I come to the end of the grounds and see the tall wire mesh fence that I have come to so many times before. There is barbwire at the top and I know it is electrified because there are warning signs on it and we have been told not to touch it.  Sometimes I've seen birds and small animals lying at the base of the fence, all shrunken and singed. The Grey Uniform girls usually try to take them away before we see them. They don't want us to get upset. But more than once I've wept to see a half-burnt baby rabbit staring blindly up at the sky. Now I stare through the fence beyond the steep drop of the cliff on the other side and take in the view of the wide blue-green sea. 

It always seemed to me that the fence was put up to keep out all the bad things in the world, everything that would hurt the special girls who lived here. At least I just took for granted that was why it was put up. Daddy was always looking out for us. He put up this fence to keep us safe. That is what I always thought. Now I begin to wonder. The thought that I am having now does not make me feel bad but it makes me feel ashamed to face the little eyes in the trees. It makes me ashamed to be seen by Daddy. I am thinking that maybe the fence was put up not to keep the bad people out. It was put up to keep us in.

Forgive me, Daddy. I drop to my knees. Forgive me, Daddy, for I have sinned.

 kneel there and gaze through the fence at the sea until the sun begins to go down. I watch it disappear into the ocean, turning the waves first red, then orange, and finally a deep dark blue that deepens ultimately to black. I feel a dark cold breeze blowing against my still warm flesh. I shiver and decide it is time to go back. Again the cafeteria is filled with girls but I don't feel hungry. I decide not to put it off any longer.  I go to see the Counselor. 

All of the booths are empty when I get there and I walk into the closest one. The door shuts automatically behind me. I put my left palm down on the special black sensor plate and a face and voice automatically comes on the screen.

"Hello Maya180. Please slip the first two fingers of your right and into the finger sleeves on the panel to your right."

I do as she asks. 

"Thank you Maya180. How can I help you?"

It is a woman's face that appears on the screen. She is not as pretty me, or the other girls like me, but there is something about her face that is strong and dignified and attractive. It is a face that you feel you can trust even with your most painful and darkest secrets. 

I sit there staring at this face for a long time wondering how I should begin. How can I possibly tell her what is really on my mind? How can I say that I had begun to have suspicions about the place I had called my home for as long as I can remember? How can I tell her about the dream I had and the beautiful girl I'd once known as Katya360 who I realize now has become a Grey Uniform girl? 

How can I tell her what Katya360 has told me? How can I ask her if even some of what Katya360 has told me is true? Certainly the Counselor would deny it even if it were true, wouldn’t she? At the same time, aren’t they always supposed to tell you the truth?

They were here to help us. That is what we’ve always been told. It must be true. I am very, very confused. 

Again the Counselor asks in her pleasant but very straightforward tone. "How  can I help you, Maya180?"

"I'm not sure," I say honestly.

"Is something troubling you?" 

The Counselor's voice is neutral, inspiring trust, but suddenly I am not so sure I can trust her at all.

"No," I say.

The Counselor's face gives just the hint of a frown. But it is the kind of frown that reveals more disappointment than anger.

"You are not being honest Maya 180. Are you?"

"No," I say. The sensors in the finger sleeves will betray me every time. 

"That's better," the Counselor says. "Now why don't you tell me what is troubling you?"

"My marriage is coming up," I say. 


"And I guess I was just a little nervous. I mean I don't know what will  happen on the outside. I don't remember ever being there."

"Your Husband has been carefully chosen," the Counselor says. "You have nothing to worry about. He loves you like your Daddy loves you. The world on the outside is safe so long as you do as your Husband Daddy tells you. Daddy will always protect you. There is nothing to fear. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I say. "I understand."

The Counselor’s face and voice are so sincere I want to believe her. For a moment I really do believe her and that is what saves me.

"Thank you very much," I say.

"Is there anything else?"

"No," I say quickly. "Thank you."

I pull my fingers from the sleeves. 

"Thank you very much."

"You’re welcome Maya180 and congratulations on your upcoming wedding."

The Counselor smiles warmly and the screen goes black. The door of the booth opens and I know where I have to go next. 

There is no place out of bounds for a girl like me. We are permitted to range freely throughout the facility. After all, Daddy's eyes are everywhere. There is literally no place we can go without him seeing us. If there is a place where we might get hurt or otherwise don't really belong someone will gently and patiently lead us away.  

Katya360 told me about Building X where all the secrets are kept. I find it without any trouble at all. The dream has brought back so many old memories but for some reason the sickness doesn’t come. Or if it comes, it’s now just a slight feeling of queasiness. Is the realization that Katya 360 was right all along acting like a kind of antidote to the bad feelings? Is it the truth that’s curing me? All the same, I have  to keep one hand on the cramp in my tummy as I make my way to the building's  basement.

They are there just like Katya360 said. They are lying naked in sealed cylinders with tubes running out of them. They are in various stages of transformation. Some have breasts. Some have already undergone the extensive  plastic surgery that have transformed their faces into those of beautiful girls like me. Only a few have the smooth plastic v between their legs. Most of them still have their penises. 

I walk among the rows of cylinders in stunned amazement. Was I once like one of these creatures? Was I once a Daddy, too? It seems inconceivable. And yet here was the evidence right before my eyes.  I stop at one cylinder and see an unfinished creature, half-man, half-woman. I put my palm against the glass. The poor thing inside looks remarkably like me. But then all the girls here do. At the top of the cylinder I read the small engraved sign: Maya181.

I don't need to read the computer files to remember who I used to be anymore. It’s all come back to me. My name was Robert Morrison and I used to be an airline pilot. I was married to a woman named Jan. We'd tried to have children but it turned out that I not only had erectile dysfunction but that I was sterile, too. Jan was extremely upset. Our marriage was already on shaky ground when she discovered I enjoyed wearing women's clothes. I had endured her retaliatory affairs with  other men and had even offered to undergo a risky  experimental surgical procedure  in the hopes it would correct my sterility. I truly had loved her with all my heart. 

I would have done anything for her. I remember being admitted to the hospital in Switzerland. Jan had traveled with me. She seemed very excited. I thought it was because of the new hope my upcoming surgery had given our  relationship. I realize now the mistake I had made. 

I should have known something was wrong when the psychiatrist assigned to my case asked me so many questions about my cross-dressing and sexual fantasies. They asked me a lot of questions about the time my father caught me dressed in my older sister's clothes. They could only have gotten that from Jan. She was the only one I'd ever told. I felt betrayed and hurt. And confused. What did all that old history have to do with correcting my impotence and low-sperm motility? Still, I
tried to  be as honest as I could. I really wanted to get better for Jan. 

As my weeks at the clinic dragged on, she came to see me less and less. The doctors said it was for the best. That it would help me concentrate on the business of getting better, but I suspected that Jan didn’t come visit because she was having an affair. That her lover had come to meet up with her in Geneva during my treatment. Meanwhile, at the hospital, the doctors subjected me to test after test. Some of them seemed quite bizarre. If I questioned them, or voiced even the slightest objection to the treatment, they got snappish and impatient and challenged my determination to get better. I quickly learned to shut my mouth in the face of their superior knowledge and simply do as I was told. If I failed, if the doctors gave up on me, I knew my marriage was over. 

I was made to watch x-rated movies while listening to what sounded like pleasant new-age music. That was one of the weirder “therapies.” At first the movies were the typical ones of men having sex with women. Then the women were removed from the tapes. I was encouraged to imagine who they were having sex with. Later they showed me tapes of men having sex with women who still had penises. Meanwhile they monitored all my responses with electrodes, including the electro-muscular impulses in my  penis. I was always extremely embarrassed when I got an erection, especially because it only seemed to occur during the movies when the men were having sex with the women with penises. The nurses and women doctors did their best to make me feel comfortable and even encouraged me to enjoy these movies.

Jan showed up on the day my surgery was scheduled. She came into my room right after the anesthesiologist left. It was then that she explained how she had sold my body to the 21st Century Fox Corporation. Of course I had no idea what this meant. I’d never heard of the 21st Century Fox Corporation. Was it a company that made movies? I must have looked as stupid and confused as I felt. Jan laughed. She explained that I would be turned into  a new kind of woman just in time for the new millennium. I could hardly make sense of what she was saying. The drugs I'd been given were already taking effect. Was it all some kind of bad trip I was having before unconsciousness set in and the operation began? 

Suddenly, it seemed of paramount importance to find out. I was about to undergo surgery, but it was never clearly explained to me just what and to what end I was being operated on. Enough of what Jan said had sunk in and I struggled to sit up. It was useless.  Jan just laughed and pushed me back with a little shove of her hand. It wasn’t just the drugs. In the preceding weeks, I had grown considerably weaker in body as well as in mind. Deep down, I knew there was no resisting the changes that had already occurred and were about to occur. I had fallen into my wife’s trap. There was no escape. No point in struggling. 

As I lay there paralyzed and horrified at what had befallen me, Jan continued to lay her cards on the table. She really seemed to be enjoying herself. She told me how much she had made by selling me. It was an astronomical amount. She would be able to live in luxury for the rest of her life. Really, I couldn’t help but be impressed. I had no idea that my worthless life could possibly be worth so much. Even more than the life insurance policy I carried. 

Worst than anything, however, Jan made fun of my love for her and told me how much easier it made it for her to do what she had done. Any normal man, with even a modicum of common sense and self-respect, would never have allowed himself to get into this predicament. He would never have put up with one-fourth of what she’d put me through. He’d have up and gone a long time ago. Of course, I knew she was right. I had told myself the same thing many times over the years. But it was useless to regret that I wasn’t a different kind of man than the man I was. And soon I wouldn’t be many kind of man at all.

The last thing I remember, Jan kissed me on the lips 
and told me  how much I was going to enjoy being a real girl. And how much she was going to enjoy being with a real man.

Then the curtain fell on my old life once and for all.

I feel a hand on my arm. I turn slowly and see a man in a white lab coat. He is at least six inches taller than me even with my high heels on. 

"Come with me," he says.

I obey him without a word. 

I am a Grey Uniform girl. I wear a plain grey dress that hides my figure and a grey cap that hides my hair. On my feet I wear plain black shoes with thick rubber soles. The shoes are specially made to fit my high-arched feet but they look perfectly ordinary, perfectly functional from the outside, which is what they are. I am a Grey Uniform girl. I am a perfectly functional girl.

I am a Grey Uniform girl. I have been assigned a job. I make up the rooms of the beautiful girls on the fifth floor of the west wing. I walk passed their doorless rooms and look inside. If they are still occupying the room I do not disturb them. 

Sometimes they are sleeping or lounging in bed with a magazine. They are the kind of magazines that have glossy pictures of pretty people and sexy advertisements. The articles are all about how to attract and hold onto men,  how to make yourself more beautiful, what the latest fashions are, and how to  be better in bed. I know this because I deliver the magazines to the rooms of the beautiful girls so they will have something to pass their time. They skim the articles. They gaze dreamily at the pictures. They flip through the magazines while they wait for the urge to sleep, tan, eat, or go to the fuck room. I remember how I used to lie on my tummy in bed for hours flipping through these same magazines, my ankles crossed behind me, without a care in the world. 

Now I am a Grey Uniform girl. Now I must constantly be aware of the clock. I must be in certain places at certain times. The clock is awful. There are tones and alarms that I must obey no matter how I am feeling or what I am doing. 

I wear a little clock on my wrist and it tells me where I must go every minute of the day. I hate it.  But I am a Grey Uniform girl and I have no choice. No one uses my name anymore and no one bothers to talk to me unless it is to give me a command.   
I cannot even go to the Counselors when I feel sad. I feel sad all the time now. 

It is terrible being a Grey Uniform girl. The beautiful girls act as if I don't even exist. The other Grey Uniform girls act as if they don't even know what has happened to them. I tried to talk to Katya360 once but she just stared straight through me as if I were a window looking out on a boring scene. It is terrible. I wonder if I will be like that eventually. I wonder if I will no longer remember when I was a beautiful girl. Sometimes I think it would almost be better not to remember. It is too sad to think that I used to be a beautiful girl. It is torture.

It is torture to think that I was going to be married. It is torture to think that once my Daddy loved me and couldn’t take His eyes off me. Now they have taken away everything, including my name. Now Daddy doesn’t even look at me anymore. Now I am invisible to Him. Now I might as well not even exist.

Sometimes I pass the doorless rooms where the beautiful girls live and I see one of them lying there leisurely masturbating under Daddy's appreciative eye. They move so slowly and sensuously with the delicious knowledge that they are being watched. Sometimes they lie on their tummies like I used to lie, their pert tanned butts in the air, as they stroke themselves to orgasm.  Sometimes they lie on their backs, their knees drawn up to their chests, exposing their hairless little v's to Daddy's loving gaze. They lick their  lips and squeeze their hardened nipples and close their eyes and let themselves totally go in His presence. How wonderful it is to be watched! How  wonderful it is to come for Daddy! Oh, how much I miss that. 

Now I am not allowed to touch myself. I can no longer use the fuck machines. I can barely stand  the sight of my own body. I am ugly and sexless. Now I am a Grey Uniform  girl. Now no one will ever want me again. I might as well be dead.

And that is not even the worst part.

The worst part is that I had already been fitted with my wedding gown. It was a dream dress. Beautiful and sexy. The skirt was short to show off my legs. The bodice was the most delicate of corsets: wire hidden in lace that lifted up my plump titties and revealed just a tantalizing bit of my soft flat tummy. Over it all the headpiece fell in a wondrous cascade of filmy tulle as if I were standing under the mist in which at any moment a rainbow might appear. My shoes were little more than slippers, high-heeled, of course, and made of gauzy fabric so thin my painted toes showed. The bottoms were of felt so as to make not a sound, but the soft material concealed a hard sole that was arched severely to show off my toned calves to best effect, as well as forcing me to take a measured, mincing step. To top it all off, I was to wear a small tiara like a princess might wear, for on that day I would be my Daddy's little princess. 

He would be watching me proud as can be as I walked up the aisle. He would give  me away to the man who would be my new Daddy. That is how much Daddy loved  me. That He picked out the perfect man to be my new and happily forever after Daddy. Just like in all the fairy tales. My life would be a dream come true!

Instead Daddy doesn't even want to see me anymore. Daddy doesn't look at my body. I am never to show it to him again. I repulse Him. He doesn’t care about me anymore. I’ve disappointed Him and He’s disowned me. . I am an embarrassment to Him. From now on, I have to  hide myself away inside this ugly grey uniform. I am a Grey Uniform girl and Daddy  doesn't love me. He used to love me. He used to watch me all the time. Now I don't exist in His eyes. He has disowned me. He doesn't even see me. There can be nothing worse in this world. I want to die.

When I make up the rooms of the beautiful girls His eye goes blind. My Daddy doesn't love me anymore. How can I go on? How can I live without my Daddy's love? I stand outside the empty room of one of the beautiful girls. I am dressed in this ugly grey uniform. My hair is covered. My feet are concealed. My Daddy won't even look at me. I stand here with the new sheets in my arms to change the bed of the beautiful girl and I can feel the tears rolling down my face. I can feel the bad feeling coming on. It isworst than it ever was. I don't care. I hope it kills me. I crouch on the floor doubled over in pain. I lay on my side and draw my knees to my chest. The pain is going to kill me I am certain of it. I will die right now in front of thebeautiful girl's room and Daddy won't even watch me die.

It is what I deserve. It is what I want. I want to die. The pain is so bad. I am holding my stomach but I put a hand over my mouth to stifle a moan. I won't bother you Daddy. I won't bother you anymore. I will just die quietly under your blind eye. I will die like a good girl. It is all I can do to prove I am a good girl now.

I feel the hands lift me roughly to my feet and carry me off. They will take me someplace else to die. I don’t care. It’s okay. I don't belong here. I am an ugly Grey Uniform girl. It would be unpleasant for the beautiful girls to see me die. I shouldn’t be seen anymore. 

Take me away. Take me away someplace to die.

I want to die.

Only one last thing. 

I love you Daddy.

They don’t take me to a place to die. They take me instead to a Counselor. I am surprised and confused. I sit in the booth where I sat before and I place my left palm on the soft pad and the face comes on the screen again.

She looks neither happy nor angry. Not sad or disappointed or anything.

"Please slip the first two fingers of your right hand into the finger sleeves on the panel to your right," she says without emotion.

I do as she says. The pain has gone away now and I feel strangely removed from my body. I look down and see that I am no longer wearing the grey uniform of a Grey Uniform girl. My arched feet are bare, my toes resting lightly on the floor.

"How may I help you?" the Counselor says in her calm and neutral tone. 

"I don't understand," I start, haltingly, my breath catching on sobs. "Why am I here?"

"You are here because you understand." 

"I understand what?"

For the first time ever, I see a Counselor laugh. "Exactly," she says.

Now I really don’t understand! Did they make a mistake bringing me here? Do they think I understand something I don’t? No, they never make a mistake. So then, why am I here? There must be a reason they didn’t dispose of me yet. There must be a reason I’m not dressed as a Grey Uniform girl. Maybe they are testing me?  If so, what are they testing me for? What do they want me to say? How can I pass their test? I will never be able to understand the Counselors. I will never be able to understand anything at all. 

"Please I am very  sorry. I am a stupid girl. I don't know anything. Why am I here? Why am I no longer wearing my grey uniform? If you will just tell me"

"You already know."

I am close to desperation. It’s one thing to be stupid, but another thing entirely to be stupid about what you  supposedly know! I have one last chance. I don’t want to blow it. But how do I not blow it? I try to remember everything I’ve been taught. The most important thing of all. Be honest. Never lie to Daddy.

 "What do I know?" I plead. "Please tell me what I know."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Maya181." 

I am surprised to hear these words come out of my mouth. But they are the right words. They are true words. I don’t know how or why but they are the truest words I’ve ever said.

I say them again. “My name is Maya181.”

I feel a flood of good feeling wash through my body.

"That is correct.  And why were you crying and in pain only moments ago?

"Because I was so sad," I say. 

"Why were you sad?"

I feel the tears start to roll down my face as an amorphous  memory of something unpleasant returns. "I was sad because Daddy didn’t love me anymore. I was sad because He no longer wanted to see me. I was sad because I was a Grey Uniform girl and all I want is for my daddy to love and  watch me. My name is Maya181 and I am a beautiful girl. I have been created to please. I want to please my Daddy. Every man is my Daddy."

I continue to speak until I am no longer crying. I keep on talking as the good feelings flood my naked body once again. I keep on talking even as the Counselor nods and smiles and explains that the other Grey Uniform girls could not  accept their true purpose in life and that's why they never come back. They did not feel the good things that I feel. They did not feel the bad feelings either. That  is why they had to remain Grey Uniform girls. She says that many girls went through what I went through. It is the final crisis, as she calls it. She keeps on talking but I am hardly listening anymore. I am myself touching myself and telling Daddy how much I love him and I feel His eye open again and I feel myself open and I feel Him seeing me like He used to and I am crying but I am crying for joy and my orgasm is tremendous as I hear Daddy Himself speak for the very first time.

"Welcome to the 21st century Maya181."