1
It all started because of my stupid tattoos. First, I should probably explain that in my everyday life I'm a tall masculine man with a very blue-collar job. I work with people who throw the words "cocksucker" and "faggot" into every other sentence, and while I don't stoop down to their level so that I can seem like one of them, I don't correct them either. Little do they know, outside of work my sexuality goes to places FAR beyond those little words, and while I know they can (and do) tolerate working alongside men who are openly gay, knowing what I do in my private time would make it impossible for them to respect me ever again.
Ever since I was a teenager, I have been turned on by dressing up in lingerie. Silk, satin, fishnets . . . and a few years ago I tried adding a wig and makeup and quickly became obsessed. I feel beautiful as a woman, and over time I began to form a completely separate personality when I was dressed. Shy but flirty, submissive and pliable, and sexually charged far beyond how I'd ever felt as a man. But it wasn't enough just to dress up for my own gratification, I needed people to see me. Specifically, people who couldn't and wouldn't be able to "out" me without calling their own sexuality into question. In other words, married men.
I took hundreds upon hundreds of photographs of myself while dressed. Different outfits, mostly the kind that grow crops of erections in the soil of sex-starved men. Different positions, mostly bent over and presenting my body for breeding, sometimes on my knees with my face painted like a whore and my mouth open . . . and sometimes, tied up or restrained in ways that would leave me totally defenseless against their hard cocks, no conversation required. And, in the grand scheme of things, that's what most men really want regardless of what they say to the contrary. It's how we're WIRED. Deep down in the darkest part of our souls, that's what men fantasize about when we see someone we desire but can't have. Though it may only last a fraction of a millisecond, like the taking of a photograph, an image is produced in our dirty little minds of grabbing the hot little cashier at the drug store by the back of the neck and ravaging her for our exclusive pleasure. And that's what I kept in mind when I posted pictures of myself while feminized.
The results were startling to say the least. The amount of attention in brought to me was overwhelming as were the offers I began to receive from men who desired me.
After a few years, posting pics and chatting wasn't enough to satisfy my urges any longer, so I began inviting those sex-starved souls into my life and doing all the things their wives wouldn't, often on video which I would then post on the internet for other sex-starved men to jerk off to. I was never really worried about anyone in my straight life ever seeing them and/or recognizing me, but I went out of my way to keep the tattoos on my arms covered just the same. While my face would be hard to recognize under all that makeup, my tats would be recognized instantly by anyone who knows me, but after a while I began to think, "What the hell?" they'd have to be on either a gay or transgender website to see them in the first place, and that'd be hard to explain to the boys down at the factory . . . not to mention their wives.
Hindsight is always 20/20, and it simply never occurred to me that I hadn't considered all the possibilities. Specifically . . . what if the co-worker in question was a gay man, for example? He could certainly expose me without anyone thinking different of him. Or . . . what if the co-worker who stumbled upon my profile was a WOMAN? In a culture that views female sexuality (and BI-sexuality) in a way that encourages experimentation, a woman could admit that she was trolling the internet for videos of men fucking other men without permanently damaging people's perception of them, not like it would if a man admitted the same thing.
The rebirth of my sexuality began with a text to my phone from an unknown number. Just a single word at first: Krissy. I've had many partners over the years and I often clear old numbers off my phone if things don't work out with a person or if I haven't heard from them in a while, so I wasn't all that concerned when I saw it. I simply assumed it was someone I had known at some point and they were trying to reconnect. My system, if one existed, was to disregard texts from anyone without a name attached, as it would immediately inform me that I'd chosen to cut that person loose at some point. I didn't need to remember the specifics, just the fact that I'd removed them from my contacts was all I needed to know.
When I didn't respond, they raised the stakes. "I know you."
Chuckling to myself, I said, "Well DUH, how would you get my number otherwise?"
Their answer nearly made me sick . . .
"From the company directory."
I tried to call bullshit but found myself unable to type. I was sure it must be a bluff, yet I found my eyes scanning the company floor for anyone holding a phone in their hand. I counted at least six at that moment, but none of them seemed to be looking in my direction. I decided it must be a very bad joke and I was about to say so when they beat me to it by naming the company I work for, erasing all doubt that this was real. I won't use the name here, instead I'll call it Lakeport Industries.
"Who are you?" I asked, terrified.
They answered, "M."
It was mind boggling. With over four hundred employees, I knew at least a dozen guys named Mike, or Mark, or Manny, or Marcus, or Manpreet, or Mikael, or Mitch . . . and those were just the men I knew personally. And, what if that was the initial of their LAST name rather than their first? Hell, what if it was NEITHER?
"What do you want?"
Their response, "YOU."
"Fine then," I typed frantically, "come talk to me."
Their response didn't come for nearly 20 minutes, but when it did, I realized that I was in real trouble.
"Listen carefully, SLUT. I AM IN CHARGE. Make no mistake about it, I can ruin your life. And before you do anything stupid like taking down your online profiles, don't bother. I've got screenshots of all your pics, and I've downloaded all your vids. You should have tried to cover your tattoos a little better, Krissy. Think the people around you won't recognize you? And before you do anything stupid, any profile you take down I'll put up under another name and send the link to everyone who works here. I'm not looking to ruin your life, so don't make me. Be a good boy and nobody ever needs to know. Understand?"
Unable to say anything else, I answered, "Yes, I understand."
"Good," they said, "I'll be in touch."
For the rest of the week, I searched the dozens of faces around me for the slightest sign of recognition, a sly smile or a grin or a wink. When I failed to see any, my mind began to create them. Did this person just smile at me, did that guy just flirt with me? For just one moment, I thought I had found my suspect in a man named Marc. All he did was say hello to me, but he usually ignored me so it made me wonder. But that theory was blown out of the water when my phone buzzed with a message while he was within my sight and was NOT holding a phone.
"Back to your station, bitch," the message said. "Look in your tool-box."
I hurried back to my station and opened the tool chest. Seeing nothing I lifted the tray to look beneath it and let out an involuntary gasp over what I found. Laying there where anyone could find them was a black butt plug and a pair of red satin panties with a small note pinned to them. The note read: "You have fifteen minutes to send me a pic from the bathroom on the 2nd floor wearing these. Just these, nothing else. I'm WATCHING YOU!"
Again I looked around me, panicked, but then it occurred to me that if this person really was watching me, they'd be going out of their way not to be caught looking. With no other options available to me I shoved the panties and the butt plug into my pocket and pulled my shirt down over them before hustling off the factory floor and upstairs to where all the paper pushers and execs did their business in glass walled boardrooms. This was at 11:30 so they'd all left for their typical 2 hour lunch already. I let myself into the small handicapped washroom and locked the door behind me. My phone buzzed in my pocket.
"5 minutes slut."
I stripped down to my bare feet and stood there, shaking. I looked down at the satin panties in my left hand and the black rubber butt plug in my right. I heard my phone buzz again and without looking at it I knew that my five minutes must be up. I slipped into the panties, and with shaking hands I began working the butt plug into myself. Without lube it didn't go in easily, but there wasn't time to mess around so I pushed it in, grabbed my phone and took a picture of myself from the shoulders down before sending it.
Their response was quick and angry. "THAT'S NOT WHAT I ASKED FOR."
"What do you want me do do?" I asked.
"Get on your knees and open your mouth like you're sucking cock."
Still shaking, I dropped to my knees on the cold tile floor and took a pic of me looking up at the camera with my mouth open.
"That's better," they said. "Now show me the plug in your ass."
I set the camera down on the sink pulled the panties over to one side and took a shot.
