The Hormone Project

Monicas voice came down the line “describe yourself to me…” 

I searched my head for an acceptable response. Two words bounced around in there as if challenging my lips to set them free, both words knew they did not qualify as a response.

Crossdresser - that is not enough

Transgender - that is too much

I should write to the government - they really should invent a well known word that would sum up people like me, I mean with over a million men on the planet indgandine theory proves I would not be the only one.

Before I get sidetracked by indgandine theory let me tell you how I arrived at Monicas question.

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I saw him at a party, his clothes looked more feminine than any woman at the party, a vicar was talking to him as they walked from the bar. He looked uncomfortable, embarrassed, and as if he wished the ground would open up and swallow him - a perfect research subject for The Hormone Project. My take on the scene that lay before me was; she had chosen to dress as a vicar and she had decided he would come to the fancy dress party as a tart.

Whatever their game was it was clearly not solely fancy dress fun, he wore a stretchy top that allowed the nipples of his breast forms to show, the black mini only came far enough below his waist to reveal a hint stocking tops. Skyscraper heels that he confidently walked in completed his look. His hair, nails and makeup were all impeccable. Well of course they were. 

I guessed they were playing out some erotic fantasy or perhaps the wife was feminising him. Regardless of which one applied to him I still feel intimidated when I cross paths with either, but not enough to stop me from asking him for a dance.

He blushed. She said ‘go on Heather’ unable to conceal her delight

I had waited for slow music and Heather seemed comfortable with my arm around him, I pulled him in close as I whispered my name in his ear. Close enough to feel his cold rubber tits pressing against my chest. I let my hand slip down to his hip where the same silicone coldness awaited me.

Heathers wife was holding up her phone, she looked so happy videoing us, I imagined her teasing Heather, I happily settled into playing my part. The music stopped, I let Heather step back and said “let me buy you a drink” as I took his hand.

With the look of a baby gofer being led into a den of grasshoppers Heather glanced at his wife, I glanced in the same direction, saw her nodding at him as her phone continued collecting evidence. Even up close he really made an 8, perhaps an 8.32. Right up until he spoke it was the overly slutty look that had lost him points in my opinion. Perhaps that had been his wife’s intention all along.

With my research complete I wrote a random telephone number on his inner wrist and smiled at his wife before leaving.

The last nagging doubt that had plagued my thoughts since the early days of The Hormone Project had now been settled once and for all, I felt ready to begin the final phase. 

No, more than that - I was ready to complete The Hormone Project.

 

———//———

Some people rush into new things without giving the ramifications of their actions sufficient thought, I have never been one of those people, my evening with Heather had served to confirm my decision - I would, without further delay, begin hormones and testosterone blockers. I popped the pills from their packets and swallowed them down.

I had learned of Monica through a mutual friend, learnt enough about her to know that we could be perfect for each other. Match or not with Monica, my mind was made up, if not Monica then someone just like her would meet my needs. Genitals apart, I would have my own real feminine shape just as soon as my pharmaceuticals did their thing.

Online research had provided guidance for dosage, befriending a burglar had provided me pharmaceuticals of known provenance. That first week I listed down my measurements in my journal daily, discouraged I changed to a weekly measure then, further discouraged, monthly measure.

First big change came as a shock, totally broadsided me. Changes came not as a result of measuring but from inside my head. I realised one morning as I dressed that I had lost all interest in wearing feminine clothes - even lingerie. Racking my brains I could not remember the last time I wore anything more than panties.

Despite changes that I began seeing in the mirror my changes defied measuring, my eyes could see little breasts in the mirror but tape measure denied their existence. My bras fitted, by fitted I mean my immeasurable new breasts almost filled out the A cup bras that I usually wore.

Suddenly, just like at the Le-Mans 24, changes began to happen overnight. I go to bed without hips, next morning I have hips…well beginnings of. I am convinced I can feel a new hip wiggle, a new bounce to my breasts as I walk. 

———//———

I know this is going to sound completely ridiculous to crossdressing traditionalists of all flavours but I have never been outside my apartment in feminine clothes. For my purposes it really is not necessary.

When I established The Hormone Project it was obvious, to me, that public exposure should be in the final phase. 

Initial phase it was essential to ensure that the required clothing was acceptable, this included 24/7 waist training using corsets, wearing bra and panties daily, and voice training classes. Next I added hair removal, stockings, high heel practice, makeup practise, nail polish practise and growing out hair. 

Towards completion only pharmaceuticals, chastity device, pixy cut hair and interaction with crossdressers remained.

Of all the steps waist training had initially been the most uncomfortable and had taken a country month to settle into. I had thought the worst over until I began chastity training, not chastity but the discomfort that came from the device.

The Hormone Project was entering its final phase, I loved the new me that looked back from the mirror. Silicone breasts and hips would never have worked for me, would never have given me the joy that I got every day from seeing my breasts, my hips, my thick thighs as I dressed or undressed. 

I was ready to prove to the world that male me existed only when I wished it to. A larger bra to support my new B cup breasts awaited on my bed next to a new summer dress that I had purchased especially for my big day. Red, open toe, heels whose height could only be described as ‘excessive’ and matching purse would complete my outfit.

I like to know the weather before I go out. I checked, sunny and warm. A perfect day for my debut, a perfect day for my ‘makeover’ for that is what men like me do according to the internet.

“Hi I have a booking for a makeover…Millie” I said

Body Worx was ready for me, they began with leg wax. In preparation I traded my chastity for a gaff for the afternoon. Next came hair, a colour change to Light Pearl Blonde and a trim to my pixie cut. In preparation for what was still to come I had brought a lilac colour sample in my purse for my nail colour to match. Red heels and Lilac nails would clash a little until I could go home but what is a guy to do?

The stylists and beauticians chatted endlessly about men and I laughed along in a non committal way. I liked Body Worx, I liked the staff. This would be ‘my’ salon I decided as I paid the bill. There was just one hurdle to clear before Body Worx really was ‘my’ salon…

“My Mistress will be pleased” I said in my male voice as I checked out my reflection for a final time.

Back home I changed into my Lilac maids outfit, I was perfect in every way bar one. A sissy maid is nothing but a man in a uniform without a mistress. My telephone rang, Monicas voice came down the line “describe yourself to me Millie the Maid” 

———//———

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