story about life under the soviets

JohnDoe123 · 02-12-2014

Hi there,

I am an amateur writer in my spare time and I was wondering if writing TG fiction might be a commercially viable thing to do.

I didn't do much proofreading so sorry if this is a bit raw and if there are typos. Right now, this is more like a writing exercice, asking myself how fast I can write and testing out the waters so to speak.

So this is the story of a man who got feminized during his youth and became trapped in his own body while under the old Soviet system. The story starts at around 22 years of age when he is nearly at "maturity". Please let me know what you think.

----------------------------------

"Thank you for taking the Soviet train Lines"

He hesitated for a second,then looked upward and stamped my passport,.
"...Sir" .

It was rare that I slipped back into my true voice, I quickly recomposed myself and wished the young lad a great day.

On the train, I found out I shared a cabin with a woman. She was pretty, and young.
Judging from her clothing, she came from a peasant family.

"Aren't you hot? Surely you can take off the gloves and your big cap. It is summer after all"

I didn't say anything.She must have wondered whether or not I was a mute.
She smiled and continued: "I love your suit, it fits your broad frame, but you should
take it off really, it's too hot and even if you have boyish good looks, with that, you look like a stuffy old man".

She laughed a girly little laugh.

I excused myself, took my briefcase with me and went to the bathroom.

I took off my gloves which revealed my long and dainty fingers. I took off the coat as the padding in the shoulders made me sweat like a pig.

I prepared myself for my weekly ritual.The shaving cream felt chilly against my skin.The blade of the razor felt liberating.

It was funny. I wondered if men who had a real stubble felt any discomfort while shaving? I imagined myself having a coarse stubble
and the joy of having to shave it. For me, it was the epitome of manhood.

I spoke a few words forcing myself to speak a few octaves lower then I usually do when I am stressed so that my gender became unambiguous.

As I went through the ritual, I couldn't help but to think about the young lady's breasts and her apparent naievete.
I wanted her. Bad.

Boyish good looks? That's right. My jawline was round rather then square, my lips were full, my nose small was and dainty. My eyes were bigger and my eyebrows naturally narrow. We were the perfect couple.

My lust gave way to fright as I remember that faithful night where I met a childhood friend in a Moscow cabaret.

During dinner, we talked about the civil war in Columbia and then being schooled away from our parent's country. The discussion quickly turned to our
former classmates.

Did you remember Marco? Killed in a shootout with an american mercenary in Nicaragua.Or so the rumor went.
How about Stella? She did well for herself, she was now an attache at the Soviet embassy in Sweden.
Or Raul? Now An adviser to Fidel Castro's army.
Did you hear about Enrique? No. He simply disappeared.
And so on and so forth.

When it was over, I offered to give Sabrina a ride home. She rushed into an alley, apparently to vomit the copious amount of vodka. I naturally followed her into the darkness when two hands grabbed me by my shoulders and pinned me to the wall.

She was surprisingly strong and her fierce kisses demonstrated a hunger I had seldom encountered. Hot tears streamed down her face as she spoke of burns and beatings. I should have pushed her away, but when the male mind sees a young woman crying and begging for love, well --- she started unbuttoning my shirt. While she did so, her hands slowly went from my abdominals toward the sides of my ribcage and then toward my hips.

When she met with all-too familiar curves in unfamiliar places, she stopped.Her eyes locked into mine for a second.They were looking for something
which wasn't there, something she knew was at odd with the idealized image she had of myself.

When she found those strange bandages on my chest, her pretty face contorted into an ugly grimace. When she dared touch "them", her hand automatically recoiled from the unnatural softness of my flesh.

When she ran,I knew I had to run as well.

I should have stayed and tried to explain yet how could I have explained the concept of being a man literally trapped in a woman's body?

To realize that your genitals were slowly turning into female ones?

To be in command of a body that was in open mutiny against the mind? To see your hips expand beyond what nature intended or your chest commit
treason by swelling into fleshy mounds?

I looked upon myself in the mirror and started wiping off the sweat off my finely chiseled muscles. I reflected upon the vast amount of time I had spent in the gymnasium trying to put on weight.

I struck a pose,flexing my biceps.I had a body that was powerful and made for performance but I would never weight much more then 120 lbs. I reflected upon how all my muscle mass seemed to have been concentrated in my legs, abdomen and thighs. If it weren't for the tape binding my chest, my flaring hips and my bubble butt, an impartial observer might have mistaken me for Billy Jean or any of the western female athletes.Sad really.

Under the socialist state, what I was becoming was not so bad. We had women snipers, scientists ,pilots... everything except women prime ministers and generals.

However,there were no lesbians in the Soviet Union and it was easy for a male party official to make unsolicited advances.
The thought made me shudder with revulsion as I myself was not privy being treated the same way I treated women.

Karma, as they say, is a bitch.

I looked down at Mr.Happy. My dick was still there, but it had shrunk from a rather normal 6 inches to a 2 inches in size. The hood had retracted so it looked like a mutant clitoris.My balls had largely retracted into my body.A dry and shallow slit running from the middle of my testes and creeping upward toward the tip of my former dick had formed.

That I hid my condition for so long was problematic. At best, I would be studied under a microscope like a radioactive cockroach or a delicate poisonous flower.

Charges of Identity theft could lead directly to prison or blackmail by more senior party officials.

What I truly feared was much worse:

Sabrina was not really Sabrina, she was a "Natasha", someone with no real identity.She robbed westerners of their honor by giving up her dignity. There was no other way for orphans of the revolution without proper skills to repay the debt we had toward the state.

No. It was too late to go back.

I peeked outside. The train stopped at a station and I saw two men that were waiting by the docks.They wore no uniforms but they stood erect, and their eyes revealed a hardness about them that could only be forged by war and conflict. They boarded the train.

It was time. With some regret, I took out my pocket knife and started undoing the bandages that tightly bound my breasts.
They bounced free. I let out a sigh of relief. I could at least now breath normally. They were an eyesore on this young man's chest but
when I saw my own reflection in the mirror, Mr.Happy couldn't help but try to stand at attention. It was a valiant effort.

I took off my cap which revealed a mane of luxurious brown hairs. I opened a janitor's closet which was supposed to contain my disguise.
Sure enough, I took out a black bra (with a "D" label),panties,a female KGB uniform and got dressed. I took out the lipstick and applied it to my lips to complete the disguise.

When I went back to fetch my belongings in the compartment, the two plainsclothes policemen were there.

There was a fat one and a thin, almost stick-like figure.

The stick spoke first and in the rudest possible tone:

"Excuse me miss, but we are here to apprehend a dangerous fugitive, will you please come with us to the office of the militsya?"

I spoke the first name that came to my mind.

"Natasha Kourniva" I responded indignantly "I have important business to take care of in Berlin, now if you will excuse me gentlemen."

He protested for a second,but I snidely ignored him. When he protested more loudly, I screamed accordingly. I am certain they could not
have understood everything I said in my hysteria, but they certainly understood the word "Gulag".

I walked off the train and into the city before the young woman could testify against me.

02-12-2014	#1
JohnDoe123 Leecher Join Date: Jan 2014 Posts: 4	story about life under the soviets Hi there, I am an amateur writer in my spare time and I was wondering if writing TG fiction might be a commercially viable thing to do. I didn't do much proofreading so sorry if this is a bit raw and if there are typos. Right now, this is more like a writing exercice, asking myself how fast I can write and testing out the waters so to speak. So this is the story of a man who got feminized during his youth and became trapped in his own body while under the old Soviet system. The story starts at around 22 years of age when he is nearly at "maturity". Please let me know what you think. ---------------------------------- "Thank you for taking the Soviet train Lines" He hesitated for a second,then looked upward and stamped my passport,. "...Sir" . It was rare that I slipped back into my true voice, I quickly recomposed myself and wished the young lad a great day. On the train, I found out I shared a cabin with a woman. She was pretty, and young. Judging from her clothing, she came from a peasant family. "Aren't you hot? Surely you can take off the gloves and your big cap. It is summer after all" I didn't say anything.She must have wondered whether or not I was a mute. She smiled and continued: "I love your suit, it fits your broad frame, but you should take it off really, it's too hot and even if you have boyish good looks, with that, you look like a stuffy old man". She laughed a girly little laugh. I excused myself, took my briefcase with me and went to the bathroom. I took off my gloves which revealed my long and dainty fingers. I took off the coat as the padding in the shoulders made me sweat like a pig. I prepared myself for my weekly ritual.The shaving cream felt chilly against my skin.The blade of the razor felt liberating. It was funny. I wondered if men who had a real stubble felt any discomfort while shaving? I imagined myself having a coarse stubble and the joy of having to shave it. For me, it was the epitome of manhood. I spoke a few words forcing myself to speak a few octaves lower then I usually do when I am stressed so that my gender became unambiguous. As I went through the ritual, I couldn't help but to think about the young lady's breasts and her apparent naievete. I wanted her. Bad. Boyish good looks? That's right. My jawline was round rather then square, my lips were full, my nose small was and dainty. My eyes were bigger and my eyebrows naturally narrow. We were the perfect couple. My lust gave way to fright as I remember that faithful night where I met a childhood friend in a Moscow cabaret. During dinner, we talked about the civil war in Columbia and then being schooled away from our parent's country. The discussion quickly turned to our former classmates. Did you remember Marco? Killed in a shootout with an american mercenary in Nicaragua.Or so the rumor went. How about Stella? She did well for herself, she was now an attache at the Soviet embassy in Sweden. Or Raul? Now An adviser to Fidel Castro's army. Did you hear about Enrique? No. He simply disappeared. And so on and so forth. When it was over, I offered to give Sabrina a ride home. She rushed into an alley, apparently to vomit the copious amount of vodka. I naturally followed her into the darkness when two hands grabbed me by my shoulders and pinned me to the wall. She was surprisingly strong and her fierce kisses demonstrated a hunger I had seldom encountered. Hot tears streamed down her face as she spoke of burns and beatings. I should have pushed her away, but when the male mind sees a young woman crying and begging for love, well --- she started unbuttoning my shirt. While she did so, her hands slowly went from my abdominals toward the sides of my ribcage and then toward my hips. When she met with all-too familiar curves in unfamiliar places, she stopped.Her eyes locked into mine for a second.They were looking for something which wasn't there, something she knew was at odd with the idealized image she had of myself. When she found those strange bandages on my chest, her pretty face contorted into an ugly grimace. When she dared touch "them", her hand automatically recoiled from the unnatural softness of my flesh. When she ran,I knew I had to run as well. I should have stayed and tried to explain yet how could I have explained the concept of being a man literally trapped in a woman's body? To realize that your genitals were slowly turning into female ones? To be in command of a body that was in open mutiny against the mind? To see your hips expand beyond what nature intended or your chest commit treason by swelling into fleshy mounds? I looked upon myself in the mirror and started wiping off the sweat off my finely chiseled muscles. I reflected upon the vast amount of time I had spent in the gymnasium trying to put on weight. I struck a pose,flexing my biceps.I had a body that was powerful and made for performance but I would never weight much more then 120 lbs. I reflected upon how all my muscle mass seemed to have been concentrated in my legs, abdomen and thighs. If it weren't for the tape binding my chest, my flaring hips and my bubble butt, an impartial observer might have mistaken me for Billy Jean or any of the western female athletes.Sad really. Under the socialist state, what I was becoming was not so bad. We had women snipers, scientists ,pilots... everything except women prime ministers and generals. However,there were no lesbians in the Soviet Union and it was easy for a male party official to make unsolicited advances. The thought made me shudder with revulsion as I myself was not privy being treated the same way I treated women. Karma, as they say, is a bitch. I looked down at Mr.Happy. My dick was still there, but it had shrunk from a rather normal 6 inches to a 2 inches in size. The hood had retracted so it looked like a mutant clitoris.My balls had largely retracted into my body.A dry and shallow slit running from the middle of my testes and creeping upward toward the tip of my former dick had formed. That I hid my condition for so long was problematic. At best, I would be studied under a microscope like a radioactive cockroach or a delicate poisonous flower. Charges of Identity theft could lead directly to prison or blackmail by more senior party officials. What I truly feared was much worse: Sabrina was not really Sabrina, she was a "Natasha", someone with no real identity.She robbed westerners of their honor by giving up her dignity. There was no other way for orphans of the revolution without proper skills to repay the debt we had toward the state. No. It was too late to go back. I peeked outside. The train stopped at a station and I saw two men that were waiting by the docks.They wore no uniforms but they stood erect, and their eyes revealed a hardness about them that could only be forged by war and conflict. They boarded the train. It was time. With some regret, I took out my pocket knife and started undoing the bandages that tightly bound my breasts. They bounced free. I let out a sigh of relief. I could at least now breath normally. They were an eyesore on this young man's chest but when I saw my own reflection in the mirror, Mr.Happy couldn't help but try to stand at attention. It was a valiant effort. I took off my cap which revealed a mane of luxurious brown hairs. I opened a janitor's closet which was supposed to contain my disguise. Sure enough, I took out a black bra (with a "D" label),panties,a female KGB uniform and got dressed. I took out the lipstick and applied it to my lips to complete the disguise. When I went back to fetch my belongings in the compartment, the two plainsclothes policemen were there. There was a fat one and a thin, almost stick-like figure. The stick spoke first and in the rudest possible tone: "Excuse me miss, but we are here to apprehend a dangerous fugitive, will you please come with us to the office of the militsya?" I spoke the first name that came to my mind. "Natasha Kourniva" I responded indignantly "I have important business to take care of in Berlin, now if you will excuse me gentlemen." He protested for a second,but I snidely ignored him. When he protested more loudly, I screamed accordingly. I am certain they could not have understood everything I said in my hysteria, but they certainly understood the word "Gulag". I walked off the train and into the city before the young woman could testify against me. __________________ My cap blog http://www.tgcapfic.blogspot.ca I try to update it daily and keep it clever.