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A Good Deed

A Good Deed

A Short Story

By Maryanne Peters

I had always thought of myself as being about as heterosexual as you can get. I mean I have always loved women and making love to women, and I could never imagine ever having sex with a man, but my eye was caught by an image of a beautiful transwoman, and it just got me thinking. It was on a video I think, and she was saying about how much she wanted to be completely female and that meant being more of a woman than somebody born that way. Like a hyper-woman, I guess.

So, I went online and spent a lot of time viewing images of post op transwomen. It seemed to me that some of the most beautiful were women who had been regular looking guys before transition, but through hormone treatment and surgery had acquired the look and body shape of the perfect woman.

And it seemed that the most feminine were those had been manly men and had become girly girls. Some had kept some strong bodies, but that appealed to me. I like women like that. Somebody who is strong enough to push back as you fuck them. That is the kind of woman that you like to have under you, or on top writhing like a cowgirl on my bronco.A Good Deed фото

So, I swallowed hard and went on a chatroom. The guy I picked out was named Hank. He worked at a precision tool plant. He had beers with the boys two or three times a week -- more in football season. But all that he wanted was to be a woman, and hopefully a wife. He could just never share these thoughts with anybody, except me. She wanted me to call her Heather and always refer to her as she.

When you communicate with somebody like this, you know that you are talking to a woman by email or chat -- you just know. I wanted to speak by phone, but Heather said that she had a man's voice. I offered to help. I did want to hear her, but not a man.

She started with training through an online coach I paid for. That could mean that she could develop a female voice but still go to work and be Hank. But once she was ready to use her feminine voice we got talking, I just wanted more and more. To me that voice on the phone was a woman trying to climb out of a body that was like a cruel trick on her -- the hard hairy skin of a man that did not belong on her. It is hard to describe what I was feeling, but it was like I was some kind of big manly hero. Here was a damsel in distress crying over the phone, and I could help her only by setting her free and fucking her brains out. It was a powerful image and it started to jump right out of my dreams and become a constant fixation.

I have my own business, and it is successful. I have money, so I offered to pay so that she could be free of this awful body that was her prison. I thought that it might be hard for her to do, and I was going to suggest that it be done slowly, but she just said: "Hell no, I will quit the plant and fly to Thailand and get everything done."

I just had to pay. It was all I had been thinking about. She had sent me a few photos of herself in drag and maybe in soft focus too, and she looked good, but she said that more work could be done. She put me in touch with the clinic so that I could tell them what I wanted, and I pay them direct. I consulted with the clinic by phone and email, and I paid a big chunk of the fees up front.

"I will owe you," she said. "More that you could ever imagine."

"Then maybe you will consider marrying me," I said, but I immediately wished I hadn't. "Perhaps we should meet before you quit your job and fly out to Thailand," I said -- after all, it was a big step for her.

I have to say it that when she arrived at the door I almost regretted that I had proposed that meeting. I suppose that you could say that it was Hank at the door. He had shaved his body and was wearing a dress and a wig, but this was clearly a man. Still, the clinic had all the information that they needed and the assured me that Heather was just waiting under the skin like a butterfly in a chrysalis.

"I am going to quit my job anyway," she said. "I have spent a lifetime avoiding this, but now thanks to this, it is going to happen. If we are not together after this, I will pay you back over time, I swear it."

Her actions were clumsy and embarrassing too, but only as she found her feet. In assured myself that would happen over time, but she was basically doing the change cold turkey. She was committed, and I was supportive. I had already paid, and I figured that it was a good deed that I could be proud of.

I had business commitments when she flew to Thailand, paid for by me, and went into surgery, also paid for by me. She was having time to recover, so I did as I had promised and flew over to spend some time in the latter stages of her convalescence.

I was pleasantly surprised, if not a little shocked, by how good she looked. The facial surgery had healed well. A heavy brow had been ground down and the scalp had been brought forward. She had been growing her hair out for months, so she could adopt a short feminine hairstyle and did not need a wig. The nose and chin and even the ears, had been reduced in size, and the lips curled and plumped. The throat had been smoothed out and the vocal cords stretched. She had only just recovered the ability to speak and she sounded female -- just a little deep that seemed to suit her size.

She explained that her vagina was still healing, but that she had bought a bikini and that we should go down to the beach so she could show me the body my generosity had paid for. I have to say that I was wildly excited by this thought. Afterall, her body was commissioned by me -- it was my work of art.

And what a work it was. There was the strong body, but he intensive hormone therapy that had begun even as she worked at the tool shop had softened I so that I was smooth and shapely. She had perfect breasts of just the right size, on full display under two small triangles of brightly colored fabric. She had a round soft butt cover by another triangle, and the fourth piece of cloth showed only a small mound where the male junk had once been.

I almost came in my pants as she posed like the cover of Sports Illustrated in the flesh.

She could see my discomfort. She came up to me and whispered in my ear -- "I am still healing, but if you like we can go to your hotel room, and I could blow you?"

She explained that she had never been with a man before, and that because she had been with women as a man she wondered if she might be a lesbian, but now that she felt truly a woman at last she wanted to do everything that a woman could do. I lay down on the bed and she went to work with a skill that perhaps only somebody who had once been a man might possess.

She swallowed my load and licked her lips. She announced -- "I like that!"

We flew back to the states and went to work changing her documents. I had formally proposed marriage to her before we left Thailand and she moved in with me straight from the airport. There was nothing left of her previously life, and that was how we wanted it.

We were married but in a private ceremony. I got what I wanted -- a transbride. It was not he way I expected my life to end up, but I guess I am a selfish person -- perhaps too selfish to think about having a family. I want pleasure, and that is what she promises jus by existing. It is as she says -- her body is mine -- I had it made. It is not there for motherhood, it is there for sex, and to be put on display to bolster my pride.

I have every reason to be proud. She is beautiful, in a way that it seems transwomen can be better than the others. Not that anybody would believe that she was not always a woman, but that is largely down to the way that she has learned to present herself. As she explained to me in the beginning, because she was who she was -- she needed to be more of a woman than somebody born that way.

We had full sex on our wedding night, with her as a true virgin. I was a wonderful thing. She was fully conditioned to take me without discomfort, but putting plastic aside, I was her first. No flesh had entered my wife before me, and her gasps and groans of orgasm were like music to me.

Her body has only got better. Her breasts have become softer, and so has her long hair, across the pillow as she looks a me with those begging eyes. She tells me that sex is fantastic -- so much better for a woman, and I believe it when she craves it the way she does.

And transwomen know all about the male anatomy. They know what works, and what sends you into orbit. Heather does that -- all the time. Her thighs are stronger than a regular woman, and so are her calls to me to thrust harder. There is an aggression in the act of sex that I find particularly pleasing.

But in all other respects she behaves like the gentlest of women. Some people might say that her behavior is overly feminine, being that which men expect of a woman, but what the hell is wrong with that? Give me more of that.

She loves to serve me. People might say real women are not like that either. But she is exactly what I want. She has three priorities in life: Me, me and me. What is wrong with that? She keeps my house clean, my belly full and my balls empty.

And what she says is that hers is her dream life. Well Baby, it is my dream too.

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2025

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