Virginia - Vol 01

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[Content:] transgender, transfemme, T4T, shopping, lingerie, dark magic

[Spice Level:] Very mild

[Notes:] This is previously uploaded content with minor edits. If you are looking to continue Virginia's story, I suggest starting at Volume 3. Though there's a lot of kinky fun in this series, this is not the story to read for a quick wank. This is a story for the femmes about transformation and the complexity of feminine desire through loss of power. This volume is exposition, so you'll have to wait until Volume 3 to get into the spicy bits. Don't go skipping ahead you dirty girl.

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"You doing okay ma'am?" The clerk asks warmly as I pick through the clearance rack. "Yep, thanks," I return in a warm voice. "Alright, you just give me a holler if you need anything, "she says, folding some Levi's and putting them aside. I snag a camisole from the tops section and search for the fitting room.

Since starting my transition four years ago -- surely it hasn't been that long -- I find myself in limbo between confidently passing and getting lost in my own head. I have many advantages working in my favor. My body, when draped in flowing skirts or a cute top, is undeniably feminine. My voice, though it maintains its confident tenor, has such delicate inflection that cis people never look at me twice.

One of the most surprising changes has been the composition of my skin. After a workout, sweat glistens on my soft skin in a way that it never did before transition. At 24 Hour Fitness, the military bros are constantly snapping pictures of their biceps in the endless mirrors covering the walls. Meanwhile, I stare at my body after a Pilates routine, hypnotized by the pearlescent gleam of my shoulders. I become fixated by the sweat iridizing my toned skin. It reminds me of sea creatures with opaline fish scales.

I fold the cami I've selected under my arms, then head to the changing rooms. For some reason, they are split into "Men" and "Women," lit up in blinding neon letters. Surely it doesn't matter who tries on clothes where - there's a curtain to be drawn anyway. I wonder about the cis interior designer who made the call, "Maybe if we crank up the wattage on these fluorescent lights, it'll make the binary make sense."

The satin camisole hugs my chest nicely. Its elastic bends to match my breasts, a pair of humble A's that fill me with immeasurable pride. "I grew these myself!" I often say in the shower. "What a powerful thing. I feel like Wonder Woman. Or maybe... Penis Girl." I smirk and trace the lace of the camisole around the bottom of my breasts. Most lingerie is designed for slim cis bodies, but I quickly learned that elastic bands are the best way to hack cis clothing. If I go a size up and look for an elastic band, then almost anything can fit my broad torso. My tits poke through the satin meekly like floral buds begging for air.

The second-hand shop is starting to get crowded as I exit the changing room. I take my place in line and look around lazily while waiting to pay. With a sense of satisfaction, I applaud myself for staying within my $20 spending limit. Budgeting has never been my strong suit.

Approaching the front counter, I notice the line of mannequins by the door. Perhaps they are adorned with exclusive name brands. That must be why they are protected behind the counter. Each of the mannequins has a contoured body and topographic facial features. They have painted expressions that accentuate their eyes and lips. Each is a different pastel color. As I gaze down the row of lifeless figurines, I notice that all of them are wearing enticing fetishwear. The baby blue one wears a maid costume, the mint green one has latex tights and a restrictive PVC neck brace like some villainous cowl. The light pink one sports a black leather corset, which pulls her waist and uplifts her chest.

I think of my own body. Even with the joys of transition, there are some things about myself that still make me insecure. One of them is my hips. Though estrogen pushed my hips outward by a couple of inches, I still have broad muscles and fat that sit on top of my pelvis. My waist is not like that of the mannequin. Despite the reassurances of my friends that I have "a beautifully feminine body," I simply cannot see my hips as femme. Looking back and forth between my wallet and the mannequin, I sigh deeply, coming to a resolution.

"Just that for you?" The clerk gestures to the cami. "Um, actually, what size is the corset on that mannequin?" I ask quietly. The clerk looks like they just got out of high school. Their dark eyes look over to the mannequin, and suddenly grow cloudy. "It's a 36 waist, but..." they trail off, as if trying to remember something. "Um, I don't know if I'd recommend that bodice you're looking at." She says, looking down at the countertop like it is suddenly the most fascinating thing. "Why's that?" I ask.

"It's only for real girls." She says absently, still looking down.

I am shocked. There's no way she could have clocked me. It's been four goddamn years of struggle and I look immaculate. I am a woman. For fuck's sake.

"I thought your generation would be better than mine," I say to her, now with a note of condescension. "That transphobic bullshit won't get you far, babe."

She looks up now, something panicked in her expression. "N-no! I didn't mean..."

"I'll take that goddamn corset, missy." I snap, now emboldened by righteous rage. I slam a one-hundred-dollar bill on the counter, just to make sure she sees my worth. "I'll show you what a true woman is."

Usually, dressing up is fun. But something about the interaction with the clerk at the shop has sucked all the joy out of trying on my haul. I drop a couple of bags on the bed. After the second-hand shop, I went ahead and spent a couple hundred dollars at various boutiques around the mall. Lipstick, panties, texturizing hair spray. So much for staying within my limits. Something about what she had said to me set me off balance in a way I hadn't experienced in years.

"It's only for real girls."

"If only you knew the pain I've suffered to become the resilient, loving and strong woman I am today," I think, tears welling in my eyes. How can the world be filled with such hate?

Bitterly, I pull the corset up my thighs and around my abdomen. It is a simple bodysuit, a line of black fabric serving as a thong attached to a bodice that encases the midsection. A skeleton of wires run up the leather front panel. They are like the bars of a birdcage. The cups are well-placed and hold my breasts snugly.

"How the fuck did Victorian bitches do this?" I ask myself, "This is oppressive, suffocating. Is there any upside to this? Perhaps if I keep this on long enough, I can condition my waist and hips to stay like this." I want to suspend my own disbelief, though deep down, I know this type of outfit offers no permanent fix for my hips. It is just another way to exploit the insecurities of women like me.

Reaching back to the lattice of string, I give a firm tug on both ends. A searing pain rips through my ribcage, ending at my breasts. Though the dull pain in my chest subsides, my tits feel like they have just been sliced open with a knife. I scream out in pain. The corset isn't even tight yet, but it feels like there are needles in the breast cups. Panicked, I look at my chest, only to find that there are no markings, and my tits are exactly as I remember them. Am I just imagining it?

I peel the bodice off me, collarbones heaving with adrenaline. That felt...dangerous. Dousing myself in cold water, I make sure to clean every inch of my body in the shower. I scrub my soft abs diligently, then dab soap on my breasts. Perhaps it was an allergic reaction to the fabric. No, surely not.

Saturday is even worse than my last visit. The second-hand shop is swarming with visitors looking to be the first to get their hands on donations from the night before. Mothers and daughters meander through rows, a couple of young siblings flit about in the accessories section. The clerk from last time is organizing the shoe section when I come stomping in.

"Hey little terf," I say to her back, almost ashamed for being such an asshole. She turns around, showing her store lanyard decorated in multi-colored pins.

"Oh, uh, welcome back ma'am. Are you finding everything okay?"

"You don't need to use your scripted customer service voice with me, babe." I retort. "This corset you sold me, well it --"

"Doesn't fit?" she suggests.

"Well, not exactly, it's..."

"Do you think it's a knockoff? I can double check the label..."

"No, it's not that. I just..."

"Then what is the issue?" she says, looking up with beady eyes expressing genuine concern.

"It...hurts."

She laughs heartily. For better or worse, I've broken her customer service façade. "Of course it hurts ma'am," she says, now at ease. "It's a corset. It's literally designed to choke your waist and make you feel small."

Despite my best efforts, I know that I am blushing. I sigh and look down at my feet. My dark hair cascades down the sides of my vision, framing my shame. "Can I return it?" I ask, dejected.

"Let me talk to my manager," she says, but I notice the playful cadence to her voice evaporates as soon as she mentions her higher-up.

After a moment of waiting, I'm summoned to the back of the store near the changing rooms. The manager walks out in heels, heavy eye makeup and a dark dress. I'd wager that she gets first dibs on every item that passes through the store.

"Hello my dear. I am Scarlet, Madame Scarlet." I can't help but laugh at the name. It reminds me of sappy spy movies. The name is Bond, James Bond.

"Enchanté, mademoiselle," I return sardonically, accentuating my French with the most lascivious Parisien flare I can manage. My semester abroad has done wonders for my conversational clout.

"Enchanté, ma chérie," she returns elegantly, without taking any notice of my sarcastic tone. "What is the problem?" she asks with concern, her voice flowing with the crisp enunciation of an academic. "Gabrielle told me about you." She gestures to the clerk, who dips her head at the mention of her name. Gabrielle shifts her weight inside her oversized Doc Martens. "Oh, so your staff is outing trans people now too?" I ask, suddenly forgetting my purpose.

Scarlet stares at me blankly, "Whatever do you mean? Gabrielle, is everything all right?" She turns to the young clerk, who has tears starting to carve down her cheeks. I take a step back, and my anger dissipates. I feel deep shame start to burn in the pit of my stomach, and it's clear that I've done something horribly wrong. I look at the pins on her lanyard one more time and spot a non-binary flag near one collarbone and a trans flag near the other.

Scarlet gives Gabrielle a maternal pat on the shoulder, then turns away from me. Despite her soft voice, I can hear her whisper, "It's okay darling, take the day off. I'll take care of this. Text if you need anything." Then, Gabrielle disappears into the back room.

"I don't tolerate discrimination in my establishment, even from customers," Scarlet says, looking down at me with fiery eyes. I sink into myself, realizing my horrible error.

"No, I- I'm transgender, and I thought... well, I think Gabrielle said that I wasn't a real woman... and then I bought this corset and -"

I stop speaking when I notice that Scarlet's eyes have locked onto the bodice that is tucked under my arm. Her eyes soften momentarily, then something unknowable and dark flashes across her countenance.

"Oh dear, you clearly do not understand. Gabrielle was simply stating the truth. That corset can only belong to a real girl."

I feel a familiar anger burn up again, but before it can find an outlet, Scarlet checks my temper. "You silly creature, becoming a real girl has nothing to do with what's in your pants. Hell, it doesn't even have to do with hormones, hair, or any such frivolous things. Becoming a real girl involves something deeper."

A chill runs through me as I try to make sense of what she's saying. My eyes scan the store, and I notice that nearly all the other customers have gone. No, being a woman has everything to do with hormones. Estrogen saved my life. It's helped me to become the person I am today. I know some trans women who haven't gone on hormones, but it has meant so much to me. What the hell is she talking about?

Without my noticing, Scarlet has circled around behind me. She speaks in a lower voice now. "You see, some items of clothing are embedded with ... a sort of otherworldly power. They have been used with such devotion and been responsible for such ecstasy that they become imbued with unique properties. This bodice is not something I've seen in decades. I would say you are fortunate to be the one to find it."

I am frozen to the spot, though I glimpse her red lips out of the corner of my eye. She whispers in my ear, and I swear that her teeth have...changed somewhat. "You may return it, after all. We live in a world of excess. You buy and buy and buy, decorating yourself in lavish things, then you discard and discard and discard all the little trinkets that you have accumulated." I feel sharp fingernails trace the back of my neck, but Scarlet has moved in front of me and I can see her hands neatly folded in front of her.

"It's not my fault that this world is shit," I say defensively, "I've done my part to fight fast fashion. I go on marches for workers' rights and climate justice all the time, but the world keeps on churning away. No one stops to think for single second." Despite my conviction, my voice seems more tenuous than usual.

"You fight against the tide like a puny crustacean," she says melodically, "You shed your gilded shell over and over and over, just like the rest of them."

I can't quite piece together what she is saying, though something about her voice is setting off alarm bells at the back of my mind. Something tells me that she is taunting me, luring me.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I need to center myself. I recite affirmations internally, "I am a good person. I am kind and thoughtful, though I can make mistakes."

"Look," I say firmly, "I just need to return this corset and I'll be on my way. Can you manage that?"

"Certainly," Scarlet says absently, then begins to tap away at the register. She pauses as I'm about to hand over the bodice, and suggests earnestly, "Surely it wouldn't hurt to try it on once more? The changing rooms are just over there." She guides me to the familiar hallway at the back of the store. There are no more neon lights announcing "Men" and "Women." Did I imagine them?

"If there are issues, I can assist you. I used to be a seamstress, after all," Scarlet hums. "I could even tailor it for you for free, if you're willing to wait a couple of days." Something feels off, but I can't quite place it.

"No thank you, it fits fine, it's just -- " Suddenly and inexplicably, we are standing in front of a tall mirror, the curtain shrouding the entrance to the fitting room. Scarlet holds the bodice up to my chest, then says, "I won't pressure you. I'll just be at the counter while you make your decision. You're welcome to return it, I just think it would be a shame to pass up something as special as this." She glides out through the curtain without a sound, and I am left alone in the heavy silence.

I've never been good with mirrors. They reflect a version of myself that seems unreal. In fact, my therapist says that in many ways, a reflection isn't real. Dysphoria makes it so that I simply cannot see myself as I am. Despite how far I've come, I often see a bearded twenty-year-old reflected in the glass, the nervous creature that would cry in the bathroom during SAE parties. College was horrible for me, and mirrors remind me of college. They are portals that suck me back into that bathroom at the frat house. They pull me back into the abyss.

I shiver, then snap back to the present. I look down and examine the corset more closely.

"What was she saying about this? It's...somehow magical?" I scoff skeptically, "Bullshit." Turning over the black leather in my hands, I come to a resolution. "As strange as Scarlet is, I wouldn't mind her tailoring this to work with my trans hips." I smile to myself with renewed confidence.