Girls Love Paris Best
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

My name is Laurence Beale. I used to be known as Larry. I always thought of myself as a masculine guy – I played football and baseball. I always thought of Laurence as a masculine name. I could of Larry Coombes, Larry Holmes, Larry Johnson. It never occurred to me that because of that name I could be mistaken for being a girl.

I had always been weak on math and science, so I had chosen options in high school that suited my strengths in arts and literature. I was interested in a sports scholarship, but I needed the good marks, in anything that I was half good at. I took on French and I enjoyed it, but I did have some problems with oral expression. In my final year I was getting worried, so my parents arranged for me to apply for an exchange program with a family in France straight after the Christmas holiday for a minimum of three months. It would involve going to a French school while I was in the country and learning the language “by immersion” – a proven method for the spoken language.

The original idea was that I would swap with a guy from France, but Mom and Dad were going through some financial problems, so I was signed up with a French family who had volunteered. Dad had pulled out the previous exchange deal at short notice, so I had very little to go on – only the names of the parents – Richard and Madeleine Devaux. They lived in the heart of Paris. It sounded great. I could get my spoken French up to speed and with all the museums and galleries in Paris I could build on my art history material as well

I knew something was wrong almost straight away. I arrived in the concourse and Paris Orly and saw a pretty girl about my age, holding up a sign with my name on. But the moment she saw me her mouth just fell open. Then she started to laugh. The attractive and beautifully presented woman beside her began shaking her head and as I approached they were in animated conversation in French.

The girl broke off and smiled at me. She really was a babe, and the smile knocked me over.

“You are Laurence?” she almost giggled the question. When I nodded confusedly, she held out her hand “I am Delphine. This is my mother, Madame Madeleine Devaux.”

I did my best to say “enchante” to both, but I could not hide my consternation. What was going on?

“Please excuse us”, said Delphine, “we were not expecting a boy!”

As was explained to me in the car on the way to their inner-city apartment, Laurence is a girl’s name in France. All of the papers they had received had given no indication that I was not a girl. From what I could gather Delphine and her mother agreed that I would stay for the weekend coming before they would decide what to do.

I met Delphine’s father when I arrived at their luxurious apartment. He was a very successful dentist in Paris but (it surprised me) he spoke no English. Delphine’s English was pretty good and her mother spoke a little. I had developed a good vocabulary from my studies but (at that time) I still found it hard to follow the conversation. It was clear that Richard, like his daughter was more amused than worried. Madeleine seemed more anxious, and so was I.

“Look,” I explained to Delphine, “I really need to complete this time in France. My parents have spent money they don’t have to get me here. And my grades on oral French are terrible and I need this. Why can’t I go to school on Monday as planned?”

I am not sure that either of them followed all of that. But I learned quickly that there was a good reason why I could not. Yes, the school was expecting me for the next six weeks, but it was a school for girls only.

What a balls up! More animated conversation between Delphine and her parents in French. It was clear to me that Madeleine would face some embarrassment as she had arranged everything. The atmosphere was getting quite heated and Richard Devaux suggested that Delphine and I go for a walk.

Paris in January was much colder than I expected and I confess that being from Florida I was poorly prepared for the weather. Delphine went straight to the wardrobe in the room I was given and opened the door.

“This room is for my sister Paulette. She is at university in New York so this room is clear for you. She is larger size and one of her coats can fit you I think. Also try this hat. You must have a hat in this weather.”

Then, when I was dressed she looked at me strangely. “Try her boots as well”, she said.

The coat was dark and the hat like a big beanie but with a small soft brim, so no big deal. Even the scarf although brightly colored, was OK, but I baulked at girl’s footwear.

“No no,” said Delphine. “Outside today you will need something warm on your feet. The heel is small. This boot is like you say – both sex?”

Unisex it was not, but strangely it was a perfect fit. It was a bit awkward walking down the stairs but on the Paris streets, I had no trouble. So, we walked around and she showed me the neighborhood – the local bakery, grocery, newsstand, metro station. Delphine talked a lot, but she also spent some silent periods just watching me walk. She was clearly working on some plan.

Madeleine was in the hall when we got back. Before I even took off my coat she said that I could stay for a week, but as I could not go to the school that had enrolled me, I would have to go back to the US. But Delphine stopped her. She gave her parents the benefit of her own thoughts. I could not understand what she was saying. She kept point at me as I stood in my coat and boots. It was clear that her mother was initially dismissive but coming around. Did Delphine have a plan that would allow me to stay?

To convince her father of her plan she took my longish hair and pulled it forward around my cheeks. “Voila” she said. Richard Devaux nodded. Madeleine Devaux threw her hands in the air and almost screamed.

What was going on?

Seeing my dismay, Delphine explained: “Laurence, I have a strategy. If you would like to stay, then we can try this. It will be difficult for you, I think. But my parents agree that if you want it, it will work.”

I had to stay. I would consider anything. I was in trouble if I could not fix my oral French. I knew that living in France for a few weeks would make all the difference.

“Come to my school on Monday,” said Delphine, “but as Laurence, the girl from America!”

I protested: “I couldn’t do that. I could never pretend to be a girl for 3 months. Nobody would believe it.” Of course, I had to say that. What guy who valued his masculinity could say ‘Sure, no problem. I can be a girl for a while’. The truth is that I just did not think I could get away with it.

“Laurence,” said Delphine, “there are two important things to remember. First my mother and I can make you look like a girl. This I promise you. Second, to have you act like a girl is much more hard, but as all French people think that American girls act like cowboys [I think she meant tomboys] we can help you with this too.”

“You must think this first,” said Delphine’s mother, in her awkward English.

Delphine followed me upstairs to my room. “If you go with the strategy do not unpack,” she said. “Everything is here. Paulette will not care. Her size fits you perfectly. If you decide we can start tonight.”

I was considered my position back home. I had an oral French test scheduled in April and my final exam before the end of school in June. This seemed the only way to give me a fighting chance of getting the marks. And I liked Delphine and her family, and her home. I thought the neighborhood was great. I wanted to stay.

The worst downside that I imagined is that I would be discovered. In a girls’ school that would mean embarrassment but not physical injury. Perhaps it would also put me in trouble, but surely, I would simply be sent home. Of course, that was not the answer. I needed to do a good job with this disguise and eliminate that risk.

“If you can make me look like a girl, and help me act like one, I’ll do it”, I said.

Both Delphine and her mother were thrilled. They seemed to look forward to the challenge. It also seemed that they had been in discussion on the plan as they acted quickly and in concert.

“First you must have a bath and lose the hair from your body”, said Delphine.

“Is that really necessary”, I asked, “in the middle of winter I am hardly likely to bare my legs”.

“It is necessary”, explained Delphine. “If you are to be a girl you cannot have this hair on you, even if we cannot see it. We are decided that you are to be a girl from inside to outside. If you do like this, then nobody will guess you are really a boy. Believe us and do as we ask.”

I suppose that I just decided to go with the flow and do as they asked. So I bathed and shaved my legs and arms. After I had dried myself they provided me with a ridiculously feminine pink silk robe to wear. I sat as they washed my hair in a basin and applied all kinds of perfumed conditioners and straightening solutions. My hair was light colored and had a natural curl. It was a little long, but when the curl was taken out it went all the way down to my shoulders.

Next they went to work on my eyebrows. This scared me a little, but Delphine simply said that if they did not grow back before I left she would simply shave them off and I would have to say it was a prank. They plucked away and applied creams and solutions to my face.

“France is the best for hair and skin treatment”, said Madeleine. “All of the great names are from here in Paris.” She showed me all the compounds in use and did her best to explain them to me in English.

They applied just a little makeup. Some mascara and a light lipstick. And Delphine put a barette in my hair and she spun me around to the mirror.

It was remarkable, and I could see the mouth on the young woman staring at me drop open. I looked so completely female that I could not believe it was me. It was as if they were playing some kind of trick on me. I was not only feminine I was beautiful. So beautiful that I suddenly realized an erection was tenting the robe. I tried to adjust the folds in what I was wearing, but Delphine’s mother had already recognized it.

Madeleine sent Delphine away to find some clothes. She collected up some lingerie ushered me back into the bathroom. She locked the door behind her and opened the robe. There was my erect penis. Maybe it was not an impressive sight but it was engorged almost to bursting. Madeleine smiled at me and stroked my smooth cheek.

“We must put this little boy to sleeping”, she said. She dropped to her knees and licked the tip of my penis. It was as if I was dreaming. It simply could not be happening. I looked down at the top of her head. Her dark hair was swept up into a mass of curls on top, shiny and sweet smelling. She took my cock into her mouth and I wanted to take her head in my hands but I dared not touch it. I almost fell over backwards as her expert lips slid over my penis rhythmically. I put my hands in my own hair as I felt myself coming to orgasm. Then I saw in the mirror opposite the face of a young woman, hands in her hair, face flushed, on the edge of orgasm. I spurted, and my penis flopped out of her mouth.

“I think he will sleep now”, said Madeleine, of my penis. “You could not wear these with that little one hard”. She held up a pair of foundation panties and then helped me slide into them as I stood up and she remained on her knees. With my penis now shriveled back to normal size the panties showed a female groin. She stood up to help me put on the lacy bra and camisole.

“Thank you”, was all I could think to say. Sure, I had jerked off, but I had never had a sexual encounter with a woman until that point.

“More of this for you later”, she said, “but you must promise me two things: First - tell nobody. It is our secret. Second – be a girl for me. If you are good at this I will keep the little one happy.”

If I did not have a motivation before that moment to do whatever she asked, I did now. I had just experienced the best orgasm of my life courtesy of this marvelous, mature, beautiful, French woman. And now there was the promise of more of the same.

We stepped out of the bathroom with me in full ladies’ underwear, and with the front of my panties almost flush. Drained of their contents my balls were tucked away and my penis pulled back by Madelaine’s own tender hand.

I tried on several sets of clothes and paraded up and down the living room with Delphine and Madelaine making suggestions as to my walk and how I held my hands, or handbags, or a bundle of books, or an apple. It was made clear to me that the use of the hands, sitting, standing and walking, were the art of appearing as a woman. It occurred to me that I did not appear as a tomboy at all.

My voice was hardly deep, but I was encouraged to speak a little higher. Madelaine played some note on the piano to find the note that could work for me. She had me sing a French song standing beside her at the piano and reading the words. I had to stay on pitch. My voice was not soprano but would definitely mark me as a girl even talking over the phone.

After a huge day I went to bed in a silk nightie so that I could feel like a girl even as I slept. And curiously I did. I dreamt of the girl in the mirror as I orgasmed into Madeleine's mouth. I dreamt of her hair swept to one side with a barrette like I wore. I dreamt of her eyes and her panting lips. But she was me. I realized that this was not Madelaine - I was dreaming about the female me in the bathroom mirror.

On Sunday when I came down Mr Devaux was at the table taking coffee and a croissant. I had combed my hair and was wearing the robe over my nightie. He turned and then stood up, looking at me with amazement. He told me that I was very beautiful (tres belle) and he kissed me on both cheeks. I blushed. That was not something I could ever remember doing before, but I knew what it was.

It was agreed that after another morning session on the feminine arts, we would go out in the afternoon to test my disguise in public.

The morning session consisted of teaching me how and when to do my own hair and makeup. How to primp and retouch to be at my best at all times. We did more walking and talking and sitting and standing. After lunch we covered getting in and out of the car while Mr Devaux waited patiently in the driver’s seat, smiling gently. I had been dressed in a winter skirt with tights and boots (with heels this time), and one of Paulette’s very expensive jackets. Mr Devaux drove us all to the Bois de Boulogne and as the day was fine (but cool) we walked around for about an hour.

After only a little training in and around the apartment, I found it surprisingly easy to walk the paths and steps of this beautiful park. Every now and again Mr Devaux felt it necessary to take my hand or even to put an arm around my waist. He was very gallant and seemed to have no trouble in treating me entirely as a girl. Somehow that was important. He was not really in the plot as Madeleine and Delphine were, and he was clearly convinced.

He suggested that we stop at the restaurant by the lake for tea. He addressed us as “ladies” and seated us all ordering tea and pastries. Before the food arrived Madeleine suggested that we should “prepare” and she led Delphine and myself to the women’s toilets. I had never been in a ladies’ public toilet before. I sat down to pee, pulling down my tights and poking my penis out the side of its restraint to direct the stream straight down. We then all stood at the mirror to check ourselves before rejoining Mr Devaux. It was like being in a special club.

We took a long route home as I exercised my language skills talking about the day in French. My story was peppered with good natured interjections correcting my grammar or pronunciation. I began to see just how valuable this experience would be for me. Once again, I felt re-enforced in my decision to go along with this outrageous plan.

At the same time Madeleine had me speak the whole thing while exercising my voice in the higher octaves. In this way I found it natural it natural to speak in French in a higher voice – so much so that I could never speak it any other way. I still spoke with Delphine mainly in English as, but in the same high tones.

That evening Delphine, Madeleine and myself pored through fashion magazines as I was introduced to the intricacies of couture. Madeleine was undoubtedly an expert, and Delphine her able student. They showed me some of their own wardrobes, and I learned about the fabrics and cut of the perfect outfit. They then showed me what was in Paulette’s cupboard. Madeleine complained that in America she wore nothing but jeans and sweatshirts. In Paris, she explained, that would be totally unacceptable.

I had another strange dream that night. I dreamt that I was a catwalk model. I had long hair cascading in ringlets down my back as I strutted my stuff. As I came off the catwalk I was hugged by my fellow models, one with the face of Delphine and one with the face of Madeleine. I was stripped down naked for the next change and I looked at myself in the mirror, hair, make up, smallish but pert breasts, and then between my legs, topped with a small bush, a perfectly shaped pussy. I woke up with a start put was able to drift back into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, we dressed for school. The school had no uniform but did have a dress code that required skirts or dresses for girls. I wore a long-sleeved navy dress with dark tights and flat shoes, with the dark coat, hat and scarf. Madeleine drove us to school and took us to meet the principal Madame Nazaire, a rather severe but handsome woman aged in her fifties. Madeleine explained to her that I was still getting used to a dress as I had not worn one for many years “as was the American style” or words to that effect. She was preparing the teaching staff for any lapse in my feminine persona.

“Do you like to wear dresses?” asked Madame Nazaire in perfect English. “I wear trousers often, but I prefer a dress. I find a dress so liberating.”

I answered in French that I liked wearing skirts and dresses. The strange thing was that that it seemed to me that I was speaking the truth. I knew exactly what she meant.

I found the class a little bewildering to start with. It took me a few weeks to begin to follow what was being taught, but once I did it was as if a door opened. French is quite a complicated language, with all those tenses and moods, but now I was really learning it. It was not like back home where a little bit of skill could be enough. Here I needed to understand, and that was coming.

Delphine’s friends were all very welcoming. They were all keen to talk to me in English one on one, but when they talked among themselves it was in French, so I had to join in as best I could. The topic in morning, lunch and afternoon breaks, and any other gap in lessons, centered around boys. With the weekend over there was much discussion about who did what and who was the sexiest young man in town.

“What kind of boys do you like to go with?” one of them (I think it was Aurelie) asked me.

It had me thinking. What should I answer? What did I think? I was a girl and I did not want to be a lesbian, so what kind of man would I like. “I like boys who are good looking and strongly built, but who want to pay attention to me, and make life fun.”

Delphine translated my answer for a couple of them, but they all agreed that this was a good man to look for. Aurelie said: “I think you need to meet my brother.” I laughed, but then felt some worrying uncertainty. How could I relate to any boy?

Immersion is definitely the best way to learn a language. That was my focus. I have explained that I have always been weak in math, but math in French is a great French lesson. I know enough and it helps to learn how to think in a language. 54 is fifty four and also cinquante quatre. In France when you look at the digits you think - cinquante quatre.

I liked geography too. History was a little harder but OK. It was all French oriented. Art history concentrated on Europe too, but that was no problem – it was the same stuff I had studied back home. Math and science were compulsory but were a mystery to me in any language, but helped me with my French. English, of course, was too easy.

I looked forward to every new day. And every evening Delphine and I would do homework together (much more demanding than back home) and then watch some TV or surf the internet. Ike her mother, Delphine was interested in fashion, and was looking for a career in the fashion industry. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and I found that we could look at fashion stuff on the net together.

To be honest, I completely lost touch with football and basketball results back home, sports I usually followed religiously. We had other things to do.

Every night I went to bed in a nightie. Sometimes before bed I would look at myself in the mirror. I would pout and cup my imagined breasts under the silky fabric. My penis would stiffen. I wanted to call out to Madeleine to make my little one happy again. How could I ask her?

I thought that the best policy was to raise it with her when I was alone with her briefly before breakfast. I stammer something like: “I am bulging down here, I am worried that people might see … could we …?”

She nodded and winked. “Tonight. But for this problem I will give you some special tea…”. And she did. She gave me the tea, every morning. And that night, and once every few nights for several weeks, she sucked off in the laundry.

Anyway, at the end of that first week was my second weekend in France and my first Saturday night with my new school friends. There was to be a small “soiree” at a café in the neighborhood. Basically it was Delphine and me, and three other girls, and some boys. Delphine insisted that we should paint our nails and do our hair.

She suggested that I go with my natural curl but that I needed some color. My thinking was “what the hell – go for it”. She used some home color solution in a strawberry blonde, and then used curlers to give body. Then the hairstyle was just poked and prodded out into a messy casual style. She said I looked amazing. She spent an hour on my makeup, even though the look was to be “casual”. Here is me after all of that:

Delphine looked great too. She was going for a similar casual look, but her hair was much longer so she had it in a braid. She explained that she was out to impress Benoit, a guy she had an on-off relationship with who would be there tonight.

In France at 16 a person can buy wine and beer. The attitude to alcohol is very mature – they do not drink to get drunk, but only to lubricate a social event. The event was simply a group of young people spending the evening at some tables in a small café.

As promised Aurelie brought her brother, Jerome. He was the guy she described - good looking and strongly built. He played rugby, which was a sport I did not follow but understood a little. His English was very good – probably better than anybody else in the group.

“Aurelie did not tell me you were a redhead,” he said. “And she knows I have a thing for redheads.” He gave me a look that convinced me that was no lie.

I looked at Delphine and she winked at me. Her choice of color was no accident.

“Well I must admit,” I said, “I wasn’t one until this morning”.

He actually ran his fingers through my hair. “Do me one favor and don’t change it,” he said.

I ended up spending most of the evening talking to him. I guess that after talking French all week it was just so easy to talk to Jerome. He had been to the UK and had been to school there. But he had never been to the USA and was keen to talk about it. He was a real gentleman. He ensured that I had a drink and food and just had a courteous way about him.

When it was time for us to leave I kissed everybody on both cheeks as the French do, but somehow kissing Jerome was a little different. The parting gesture seemed to be in slow motion. I could feel his warm breath on each ear. It was … thrilling. It was as if it carried a promise of things to come, without a word being spoken.

Now, I have to say at this point that I had never had a gay thought in my life. I had always regarded myself as 100% heterosexual. Nothing that evening gave me any reason to doubt that, but when I went to bed that night, as I brushed out my hair and rubbed in my face cream, I started to have some strange thoughts. I began to wonder whether I had missed the opportunity to give Jerome a real kiss – a passionate one. One like a real girl would give a guy.

On Sunday Delphine had a call that Benoit and Jerome wanted to take us to the flea market (Marché aux Puces de la Porte de Vanves) and the Bastille market for lunch. Delphine was very keen. Again Delphine was in charge of the look – ladies super slim jeans and nice tops and jackets. My hair she was able to pull up into a loose curly do. She wore hers in a sleek ponytail. We looked fabulous.

At the Marché aux Puces, Delphiine and I had a great time going through the clothes. Over my protest Jerome insisted in buying me a couple of Hermes scarves (incredibly cheap I was told) and he also bought me a retro dress. I told him I would never wear it, but it was so cheap he bought it anyway.

We had a nice lunch, but in the afternoon, Delphine ended up having an argument with Benoit, so I told Jerome I needed to go home with her. In the circumstances our departure was abrupt, and it avoided the potential embarrassment of a lingering kiss like the night before.

That night I was to speak to my parents over skype. I could not explain the red hair even if I could make it look like a hair style a guy could get away with. I told them that the camera was out. Even then my mother said: “Larry, you sound different.”

I told her that it was a speaker fault, that everybody thought it made me sound squeaky. But the fact was that I now spoke naturally in a higher register. I had to put on a special voice to sound like I used to.

The following weekend Jerome suggested that I come to watch him play rugby. I had not realized it before, but I now learned that he was a junior at a professional club in Paris and that he could look forward to a lucrative contract after he finished school in September. A professional sportsman. He could hardly be a better guy to know.

Delphine and I both went. She enjoyed it as much as I did. We had seats with supporters of Jerome’s club and we were loaned scarves and hats in club colors. We shouted “allez, allez” and cheered when his team scored.

Afterwards a whole group of us attended the after-match function. The atmosphere was very manly – as if the air was heavy with testosterone. I felt girlish. There is no other word for it. I felt as though I was a small, fragile and sensitive female, surrounded by hulking masculinity. But I could not feel intimidated by that, because Delphine and I were maybe the two most popular people in the room.

With Benoit forgotten Delphine was playing the field, and she had plenty of options. It seemed that the best candidate was Thibault Tessier, Jerome’s team captain. He did not push himself on her, but he did not need to. He expressed his interest with a kiss of her hand and glances throughout the evening, but he had things to do. Then at the end of the evening he came over and engaged Delphine in a brief but passionate conversation.

“I think your word for it is ‘double date’” said Delphine. “Next Wednesday night.”

I was starting to get concerned. On the way home I told Delphine: “This is fun, but I think he expects me to kiss him. Maybe even more. If I get found out I’m dead. He is a big guy and I would not like to see him mad at me.”

“Don’t you like him”, she asked.

“That’s the problem”, I said. “I like him more than I should. I like him more than is natural.”

And that was the problem. That night I was clinging to his arm like a puppy dog. When I looked up at him I felt a strange feeling. So many people were saying how well he had played that day. I felt so proud. I felt that my guy was the best man in the room. And he was mine. I knew that from the way that he looked at me.

I was in this too deep.

I needed to snap out of this. I cried off the double date. I claimed that I had a cold. Delphine went out alone with Thibault. Jerome called. I stuffed cotton up my nose and spoke to him for an hour pretending to be sick. I told him that I would not be able to come to the game on the weekend. He was very disappointed.

He called me every day. This was not going to work. I had to agree to the double date the following week.

We went to a musical show and then had supper in the heart of the city afterwards. Thibault picked us up in his car, and after supper he was to drive us home. We drove down to a spot near the river to see the Eiffel Tower. Thibault and Delphine in the front seat started kissing. In the moment nothing seemed more right, for them. Jerome reached out. Nothing was more right for us either. The moment that we kissed was like every cliché you ever heard in one moment: Stars, fireworks, earthquakes … everything. Why had I never felt like this when I was a boy kissing a girl? Why had things become this weird?

His strong hand on my neck, in my hair, under my arm …. I had to push his hand away before it got any further. It was so unsatisfactory.

“You should let him make love to you,” said Delphine, when we got inside.

“In case you were aware of it, I am male. That is impossible.”

The interesting thing about that response is that firstly I did not react with disgust. Clearly, I was saying that if I could have I would have. And that is true. Secondly is that I felt really sad that I could not give him what he wanted. He really did deserve a nice girl, and the chance to make love to her.

“I think in America you say let him go the French way,” said Delphine. “You know. Let him put it in your asshole. You have one of those.”

“That is crazy,” I exclaimed. I should have been totally disgusted by the thought of gay sex, but instead I found myself saying: “If I let him anywhere near that area he will discover that I am a boy”.

Again, here I was not talking not as a man, but as a potential sex partner with a man. Surely something was very wrong in my head. It was just that I really wanted to stay together with Jerome, and I knew that I would need to give him something to do that.

“We can fix that,” said Delphine. “Sometimes in France we like to stay a virgin so that means we give the asshole. I have done it. For you we just need to hide the other parts with some special underwear. If you want I think we can do it. If you want to give him something, give him your asshole. Make it sweet for him and he will like it just as good as a vagina.”

A few days after that strange conversation Madeleine suggested that we meet in laundry later. I was keen to express my masculinity as things had been getting very weird lately. I hurried down as soon as Richard was in bed. She locked the door and I dropped my pants. She took me in her mouth but no matter how much she licked and sucked, I just could not get an erection. She asked me to take off my top. She looked closely at my nipples, which I had noticed had become enlarged and sensitive recently. She started kneading them and I could see that she was pulling on two mounds of flesh that had not been there a month ago. Then I found that I was losing it. I started to moan. Then I came. Out of my little limp penis I squirted clear fluid onto the laundry floor.

I was confused at looked at her for an explanation as to what had just happened.

“You are changing”, was all she said.

Changing? Changing how? Changing into what?

Back in my room I looked at myself in the mirror and I could see them now – breasts. Was I changing into a woman? How could that be possible? As I said, I am not strong on science, but it seemed scientifically impossible. But what did I know about science? Art has to be the opposite of science, and for a moment I had the romantic notion that my feelings for Jerome were spontaneously transforming me into the woman he thought I was. It seemed that thinking romantically was how things were for me now. I was becoming a fairy princess. A crazy fairy princess.

It never occurred to me that Madeleine’s tea was a potent concoction that was chemically castrating and feminizing me. But that was what was happening.

At the time I just felt that I was not functioning as a man, and regardless of the physical changes I seemed to be acting more like a woman. The only sport I was interested in was Jerome. I was not looking at women to get turned on. When I saw a beautiful woman I found myself looking at what she was wearing or wondering how I would look with my hair that way. I spent hours over my hair, makeup and general appearance. I had now taken to checking my breasts morning and night – even hoping for more growth there. Even at home I was sitting down to pee.

Larry had almost completely disappeared. My mother asked me why I still did not have a replacement webcam. I could not let her see what I had become. Even though what I had become was better than pretty.

The pressure from Jerome was never in words, but seemed unrelenting. So, I asked Delphine how it could be done. How could we do it the French way?

She said that I could claim a period and cover up my genitals with a sanitary pad. We both looked on the internet as to how it could be done, and there was a method of tucking my package away with just a small pad taped over it, and my asshole exposed. We needed surgical glue but she had been able to get some from her father’s dental surgery.

Then she said I should prepare in advance and use a laxative and preferably a perfumed enema. I had never heard of this thing before. And she said that if I wanted to avoid pain I should stretch myself a little with a dildo and consider using a tampon anal – something I later learned was plastic and not cotton, and is a called a ‘butt plug’. We had to buy one, and other equipment to prepare me.

Jerome and Thibault and their team were playing away in Nantes, and would be staying the night flowing the game. If I was serious I would need to be there. If I was not, then it was best to say my goodbyes then and there. I knew that I should (say goodbye that is) but I just could not do it. I was just to fascinated by him to see him walk away. The truth is I wanted things to go to the next level, and the consequences be damned.

The boys had already left by train and Delphine and I took a later train. But before getting on Delphine helped me with the tucking. We followed the pictures from the web. It involved pushing my balls up inside me and bringing the penis down to poke out, so I could sit down. From my knowledge it did not look anatomically correct, but it was a flush area easily concealed with a sanitary pad, and I could pee out of it. I would need to as without solvent it would be like this for days.

Then Delphine produced two dildos that we had bought and some lubricating gel to use to widen my entrance. Starting with the first and then moving to the larger one my first experience of anal sex was the candles gently inserted in my ass by my friend Delphine.

During this session was the first time that Delphine saw my breasts. “What is this you have!” she exclaimed. “How can this be? They are so big! They are almost as big as mine.” She took off her top and bra and I could see that she was right. We were both not well endowed, but I did not have to think that my chest was male. It certainly was not.

I had no explanation. She told me that maybe God was answering my prayers so that I could be with Jerome. But I never prayed for that. I didn’t pray for them to go away either.

So, we packed some good clothes and dressed to watch the game, then we headed off to the station and out of Paris.

Our team won, which was a little unexpected. The boys were on top of the world. Jerome hugged me. I could not help but whisper to him that I had a reward waiting for later that night. I have to say that as the night wore on I alternated between dread and excitement. At one point I even wondered if Jerome would be too drunk to do the deed. But he and Thibault were not about to miss their chance.

The hotel room was fairly basic, but the bed was big enough. Before I even got undressed I explained to Jerome that it was that time of month but that I would pleasure him in any and every way I could. He seemed too excited to worry about anything.

I let him play with my breasts. I apologized that they were a little small.

“No problem, Cherie,” he said. “My sister had the same problem. It can be easily fixed.”

I was getting really excited, so excited that I check my pad as I was sure I would be oozing into it. I needed to return the favor. His cock was engorged to bursting. I took it in my mouth, just as Madelaine had shown me. He gently held my head as I moved backwards and forwards. It seemed no time at all before he was shooting his load right down my throat.

It was his turn to apologize. He said: “But honestly I have never come that quickly before. Nobody has ever excited me as much as you do.

I lay curled up in his arms and tried to understand what had just happened. I had sucked another man’s cock. I had swallowed semen. These things I could never have contemplated only a few weeks ago. But here I was. But with my soft hairless cheek on his hairy chest, and his strong arm rapped around my slim feminine body, what I had just done seemed so normal. To give somebody this magnificent such a powerful thrill had been itself empowering.

After a while I said: “I want you inside me. Even if you cannot enter my vagina because of my period, I want to have you inside me”. Of course I had planned this, but hearing the words come out of my mouth were still strange. The blow job should have been enough. If it was I could keep my asshole intact. But this was the mouth that had sucked this man off. The pink, painted and pouting lips of Jerome’s pretty American girlfriend. Lips talking to a man she wanted to fuck her. I felt that I had lost control.

His cock was back again, hard as a bullet. I lubricated it and then rolled over onto my back pulling my legs up, holding the sanitary pad in place over the glued genitals. He placed a pillow under my bottom for more height and then pushed. The head of his penis broke through, and then very slowly he slid the full length in. We both gasped at the same time and our eyes met. We smiled at each other.

“I promise I will be gentle,” he whispered.

Then the rhythmic motion started. I could feel all the strength of this man concentrated in his penis pounding into me. I could open my eyes and see his muscled body rippling. I could the uncontrollable pleasure written all over his face. Can a woman feel any better? Yes, she can. When she feels the spasm, when she hears him cry our “Oh Laurence”, when the hot seed flows into her body, when his fully spent member slides out with that special sound, when he rolls over beside her and sighs with total satisfaction.

I knew at that moment that I could only ever be the receiver in a sexual relationship. Preferably only to receive whatever this man was delivering. If I did not love him before that night, I loved him now.

I switched on the webcam when I got home that evening – Sunday night was when I usually spoke with my parents. Delphine was there to say hello.

“Oh at last we see you Delphine,” said my mother. “Larry is just about to come home and only now we have a webcam.”

“Well Mr and Mrs Beale, this is because Laurence has been hiding from you,” she admitted to them. “You see here in France Laurence is a girl’s name. And Laurence has been going to a girl’s school for the last 9 weeks. So we had to make some changes …”

She turned the camera onto me: “Hi Mom. Hi Dad.”

On the screen I could see my parents gaping at the screen. Then turning to one another to whisper: “Is that Larry”, “It can’t be”, “Is this a joke”.

“Mom, Dad … I’ve got something I need to tell you…”

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2018