Becoming the woman I was meant to be
Gay Male
Submit Report My name is Revathi, the name I chose when I finally embraced the truth I had been hiding for so long. I wasn’t just bisexual; I wasn’t just curious. Deep down, I have always wanted to be a girl, to feel like her, to look like her, to be touched and taken like her. For years, I dabbled in soft play, stayed away from anal, and convinced myself I was just exploring. But something inside me kept stirring – a soft, undeniable pull towards femininity. It wasn’t just about sex; it was about becoming her, the one inside me who longed to be seen, adored, and owned as a woman. It all started with a dress. A short, black, backless one, hugging every curve of my body. Stockings, a delicate panty, and a stroke of deep red lipstick. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I didn’t see a man cross-dressing. I saw Revathi, a woman with thick thighs, a juicy bubble butt, and soft skin craving to be touched. I fell in love with her, with me. I knew men noticed my walk, the sway of my hips, the softness I carried. And I wanted more. I wanted to belong to someone who would treat me not like a fantasy but like the woman I dreamed of being. That’s when I joined Romeo and found him – Dave. Tall, built, confident, but gentle. His messages weren’t crude or rushed. He wanted to know me. He made me feel seen, like I was real. He invited me over one evening. I was nervous, but I knew what I wanted. My ass was tight, untouched, so I prepared myself with a butt plug, testing the limits of my new body. It hurt, but it made me feel owned, submissive, ready. I packed the saree, my lipstick, my lingerie, and heels, and I became her. When I reached his door, my heart pounded. I wasn’t just meeting a man; I was stepping into my truth. He opened the door and smiled. I stepped in, trembling but excited. We talked briefly, but the energy was thick with tension. His cats lingered near the door; he gently pushed them out and shut the door behind me. “You’re the only one I want to play with tonight,” he said. “And you’re my wife.” I asked to use the restroom. My hands were shaking slightly as I slipped into the dress, the stockings, the panty, and applied lipstick perfectly. I adjusted my hair, took a deep breath, and stared into the mirror. This was it. I opened the door. He was speechless. His eyes devoured me. I struck a pose, hips tilted, lips parted, and whispered, “Do you like your girl, babe?” He walked up, held my waist, pulled me close. His hands were strong but careful, like he didn’t want to break a delicate flower. His lips brushed mine, then took them, slowly and deeply. His tongue explored mine as if tasting me for the first time. I moaned softly. His hands moved down to my ass, squeezing, claiming. “This ass is mine tonight,” he murmured. “It’s all yours,” I whispered, my heart racing. He kissed my neck, my back, worshipped every inch of my skin. When we fell into his bed, I was already trembling. The plug in me, my body burning, I knew he could feel how ready I was. As I slowly undressed him and saw his thick cock, I couldn’t stop myself. I needed it. I needed to serve. I sucked him like a starving girl – messy, eager, desperate. He moaned, spanked me gently, tugged my hair; it only made me hungrier. And when he pulled out the plug and replaced it with his tongue, I nearly collapsed from the pleasure. My moans were muffled by his cock in my mouth, but I didn’t stop. I wanted to please him. I wanted to be used. I wanted to be his girl. He climbed over me, pinning my hands, face-fucking me gently but firmly, while whispering filthy praise into my ears. My lips were smeared, but I didn’t care. I was living. Then came the moment. Lube, deep breaths, his cock pressing against my virgin ass. I winced, cried, but I didn’t stop him. He kissed me sweetly, wiped my tears, and slowly pushed in. That was it. I was no longer pretending. I was becoming. The pain turned to pleasure. My body opened. I moaned his name. I held him tight. He fucked me in missionary, then let me ride him, bounce on him like a hungry slut, my hands squeezing my own chest, my moans filling the room. He praised me, told me how beautiful I looked, how much like a real girl I felt. He took me in doggy, gripping my hips, kissing my back, holding my throat gently while fucking me deeper than I thought possible. I was everything I wanted to be. And when he finally came inside me, filling me with warmth, collapsing on top of me, I knew – I was a woman. Later, in the bathroom, the room filled with steam as he turned on the hot shower. I stood there – naked, used, and aching – but still craving more. He looked at me with that same dominant stare and said just one word: “Kneel.” Without a thought, I dropped to my knees on the cold tile, tilting my head up, lips slightly parted, eyes begging for him. He stepped forward, stroking his thick cock slowly. “Ready to shower, baby?” he asked. I nodded, mouth open. The stream came – hot and golden – hitting my tongue, splashing over my lips, dripping down my chin and chest. I moaned as it flowed over me, filthy. I lapped it up eagerly, letting it soak my skin. It was raw, humiliating, and I loved it. His piss ran over my breasts, my thighs, marking me completely. I was his toy, his little slut, kneeling in the shower like I was born for this. He grinned. “Look at you, such a perfect little sissy.” And I was. On my knees, soaked, owned. He pulled me up by my hair, pressed me against the shower wall, and slid his cock between my lips. I moaned around it. He grabbed my head and gently fucked my mouth until he groaned and came again – hot, thick cum flooding my throat. I swallowed it all, licking him clean, eyes rolling back in bliss. The water washed over me, but nothing could clean how dirty and perfect I felt. I didn’t feel used; I felt desired, seen, complete.