by Zoe Brown
But now I was out of there. I took a deep breath and banished the remaining dark worry clouds and fixed a smile back on my face. I was out of there, and – hopefully – holding in my hand enough identification to establish Ashley Rhode’s existence beyond a shadow of a doubt. Opening the manila envelope, I started pouring over its contents. The largest single document was my new, ‘female’ birth certificate, which established that – as Ashley – I was officially twenty-two years old and had been born to a fictitious uncle who had never actually existed (fortunately, since both of my parents were deceased and I had no other close, living relatives, there was no one to question that story), but who sadly died when I – Ashley – was only fifteen. Since then, my hitherto-fictitious female-self had (apparently) been in boarding school (a nice set of average-student-level transcripts were included.) She had done two years of community college in Los Angeles (more transcripts), but had not done anything with herself since completing her Gen Ed requirements last spring. There were some generic health records, and a (paid) traffic ticket from two years ago, which I found interesting; I assumed it had something to do with making Ashley’s background a little less ‘squeaky clean,’ in case someone looked at it twice. And then there were the portable IDs: Social Security number, Driver’s License, Los Angeles Community College Student ID, and a Passport. The picture on the Passport and the plastic License and Student ID cards were all still slightly warm from having just come out of the printers. Finally, the new, factory-fresh, violet-encased Galaxy S9 in a felt sleeve at the bottom of the envelope, which meant to be ‘Ashley’s’ new smartphone, completed my newly constructed female identity. There it was: I was now officially Ashley Rhodes – um, for at least the next seven hours! A real person, as far as anyone could tell, or so I hoped.
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I took a couple of minutes, sitting on my bike as I let it idle, to set up my new smartphone, creating a Google account and an e-mail address for Ashley and selecting some basic preferences. Once that was done, I worked on stashing the rest of my new identification and background documents into either my purse or my backpack. The birth certificate, health records, SSN card, and transcripts I carefully slipped back inside the manila envelope and stowed inside my backpack. The rest of the items – license, student ID card, and passport – I added to my new lady-wallet. Then I pulled up Google Maps and punched up a route map to my destination, queuing it up to start auto-guiding me at the push of a button. And then finally, before pulling out of the parking lot and out into traffic, I also downloaded and installed both Youtube and Pandora on my new phone, looking for some music on either service that matched the resurgent sense of aroused excitement I had begun feeling again once I was firmly seated back atop my humming cycle, the vibrations of the engine once again slowly loosening and lubricating some things in my new, female crotch in a very delicious way.
Pandora and Youtube turned out to be a little bit of a puzzle, though. I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted to listen to. I mean, as Ashton I had my favorites, of course, but some of those went back decades and they weren’t really reflective of the hot, sexy, curvy young woman that was sitting on this bike. I wanted to listen to music that made me feel more like the beautiful brunette that I’d become, made me feel like I was twenty-two again, like I was a beautiful, sexy, sensual, horny young woman with her whole life ahead of her. And you know, I didn’t want to completely hate the music either. I was hoping that I could find something that would grow on me over time, something that felt ‘femme,’ ‘sexy,’ and ‘cool,’ like the kind of girl I wanted to embody.
I thought back to some of the more recent dance clubbing experiences that I’d enjoyed. Although I had definitely grown up – as Ashton, my male, older self – on live and recorded rock music, ever since I had made the decision to become Ashley this weekend, to try exchanging my cock for a vagina, at least this one weekend, and see what thrills and excitement life as a young woman could provide me, I’d been thinking more and more about the EDM, House, and Dance DJ mix music that was being played in a lot of Urban American and European dance clubs these days.
Yeah, ‘these days.’ Fuck, I was getting old.
But not right now I wasn’t! Right now, I was hot, young, sexy, twenty-one, and female.
Anyway, I had been remembering recently that a lot of the hottest, most beautiful and glamorous twenty-something young women in the most famous dance clubs of Ibiza and Mykonos and Berlin and Prague and New York and Las Vegas… seemed to really be digging on EDM/House/Dance music these days, and having watched a number of them dancing over the recent years, their beautiful, curvaceous, sensually feminine bodies gyrating and shaking and twisting on the floor, sometimes alone, sometimes pressed up against or rubbing against another girl’s, or a guy’s, I could now remember feeling a distant echo, back then, even though I had never noticed it at the time, of the same sort of lustful, yearning envy that I had felt much more intensely towards Amy Chen earlier this afternoon: I had, in a small, sort of sadly yearning way, wanted not just to sleep with those girls, but to be those girls, to be able to look like they looked, feel like they felt, danced like they danced…
And now I could.
Plugging ‘EDM House Dance music” into Youtube, I started scrolling through results. The first five or so mixes that came up struck me as bit loud and aggressive, more masculine than I was really feeling, so I added the word ‘Feminine’ to my search string and tried again. This time I pulled a list of results that included some all-female-artist remixes and some female DJs with their own remixes, and I loaded a bunch of them up into a playlist and randomized them all. Then I plugged in the basic pair of earbuds that came with my new phone into the Galaxy S9, slipped one of the buds into my right ear, pressed play on my Google Maps auto-navigation so that it could start guiding me to my destination at Santa Cruz, pressed play on my Youtube playlist, slipped the phone carefully into the inner breast pocket of my leather jacket, and eased myself out of Gambino’s parking lot and back out onto the street just as the EDM-enhanced beats and lyrics of Steve Aoki’s Heaven on Earth, featuring the vocals of Sherry St. Germaine, started filling my ears:
‘If you're facing out and you’re a hologram / And the hardest part was following… I don’t know what you got on me / I don’t know where to go but everywhere…’
✽✽✽
I shot across town on the blue and black bike, weaving and zipping through and around slower and stalled traffic as if everyone else on the roadways was just standing still. The traffic at just a few minutes after 6 pm had lightened to the point where I could move about pretty freely on the roads, with the exception of stop signs, intersections, and stop lights. Fortunately, though, I hadn’t hit very many of those so far. So I just kept on riding. The wind was flowing through my long, gloriously soft, silken dark hair and over my body, a sensual caress that reminded me in a small way of the sensual, orgasmic sensation of having my male body remade by the invisibly reshaping hands of Werewoman, a little over an hour ago. The sensation, and the memory, along with the purring hum of the engine between my thighs and beneath my newly feminized crotch, had really gotten my motor running again, and my taut, aroused nipples strained against the confinement of my sports bra as my new womanhood moistened anew and tingled with desire.
Being female was just such a fucking glorious sensual experience! I was loving every second of it. More than once, as I cut across town, weaving in and out of traffic and grinning widely at the shocked, surprised faces of the various slowed and stuck motorists I passed by on either side, I actually threw back my head and laughed, enjoying myself and the experience of riding a motorcycle while female just that much.
After merging back onto Market Street, I accelerated again, but I only made it as far again as 4th street, heading southbound, before I ran into another red light, and I had to slow to an idle in front of cross traffic. I sighed, panting slightly as I squeezed my thighs tight around the bike and ground my still-throbbing female crotch
against the seat, thrilling to the humming vibration between my thighs. Mmmmm fuck… what was I doing riding motorcycles as a man for all of those years?? I laughed again, grinning and tossing my dark chocolate hair back over my shoulder again.
This was the best day ever.
And then, it actually got a little bit better.
The thrumming cycling of another, much bigger and louder bike moving up alongside mine began to fill my left ear as I waited for the lights to change. The sounds of female-vocal EDM dance music continued to fill my right ear, and I was gently swaying a little bit from side to side on my bike and trying to get into the habit of moving my new, female body to the music the way I had seen some of those girls in the clubs moving; as awkward and unusual as it felt thus far (having spent over three decades dancing in much more masculine ways) I was actually starting to enjoy myself. I liked rolling my new curves with the music, emphasizing how slender and soft and feminine my new body was. But as the other bike grew louder in my other ear, I tossed a glance over my shoulder at the approaching biker and his ride, and was surprised when I saw a towering and broad-shouldered, honestly jacked mountain of a man, with biceps the size of my – of Ashley’s – head, riding in from behind me atop a Yamaha XV, a bike all in black and featuring a matte finish. To my immediate surprise, and then to my very horny delight a few seconds later, a sudden, shocking tidal wave of arousal washed over me at the sight of the ripped, muscular man on that bike. It felt like every inch of my new, very female body warmed as I looked him over, and then began to tingle with an undercurrent of lust and excitement. Beneath the constricting fabric of my sports bra, my already taut nipples hardened into aching stones, and between my legs my already humming and slightly damp womanhood, vibrating atop the sleek bike between my thighs, quivered with sudden interest, and then began to ache, and I felt fresh moisture beginning to fill my new vagina.
I was stunned, and delighted, by my body’s very physical response to the sight of this powerfully built male stranger. I hadn’t been sure, until just now, what my sexuality would actually be after my transformation, but what I was feeling now was such a purely physical, hetero-female response to a tower of well-put-together man muscle, and my new, soft, girlish female body loved it. Fuck, I loved it. I couldn’t help but let my eyes wander down the mystery biker’s body. The plain white tee stretched across his well-defined chest did nothing to hide the corded musculature beneath, and after the man glided to a stop beside me, engine growling, he pulled a black helmet off of his head, revealing a finely carven, chiseled and handsome male face with tawny skin, dark, piercing eyes, and thick brows under short cropped sable hair. He seemed to be in about his early or mid-thirties by the look of him, and my newly-female body really liked the look. The girl that I had become was having her first, organically physical reaction to a handsome – unnaturally handsome, maybe (a distant part of my mind wondered if the man might be on the ‘Hercules’ TCE or something, though such a purely-intellectual question made no difference to how my body felt about him in the moment) – man, and she – I – was discovering that she liked… that sort of thing… very, very much.
And from the light in his eyes as he looked me and my new, girlish, curvy body over, he liked what he saw too, too. That made my body tingle and my new womanhood moisten and ache even more. As casually as I could, I feigned not noticing his gaze and leaned back on the rear seat of my bike, letting my leather jacket fall open and putting my bountiful new breasts (somewhat restrained by the sports bra, yes, but still prominent beneath my snug-fitting burgundy blouse) on full display.
He noticed. “Oye, Mama,” he grinned appreciatively, his eyes gaze lingering on my sizable chest for a moment before meeting my eyes. His gaze turned to my bike a moment later, and he was clearly as impressed by that as he was by the rest of me. “Where’d a pretty little chica like you get your hands on a sweet ride like that?”
I laughed again, in my rich, round, feminine soprano, batting my dark eyelashes. I licked my painted lips and glittered back at him. I wanted this man, and I wanted him to want me, too. “There’s no mega-rich boyfriend, if that’s what you’re implying.” I fell back on the basic identity that I’d created for myself as Ashley, “My cousin offered to buy me whatever I wanted, as a gift for graduating from community college, a few months back, and I…” I stroked the gleaming fuel tank affectionately, “always thought East Asian bikes were so sexy. Plus,” I preened at him, arching my back, leaning in and pushing my ass up and out behind me as I revved the engine, “I think I look foxy on her, don’t you?”
“Ohhhh, yeah, chica, si.” He eyed my full, heart-shaped ass, further highlighted by my shiny black leggings, appreciatively, and a delighted shiver ran through me. Then he leaned in on his own bike and revved the engine, challengingly. “But can you ride? Really ride?”
“Mmmm… I think I ride quite well,” I purred back at him, recognizing the challenge and feeling a lifetime’s worth of competitive instincts kicking in. Watching from the corner of my eye, I saw the lights up ahead of us the moment that they flicked back to green, “If you can catch me… maybe you can find out first hand!” Then I gunned my engine again, and whipped my hair around as I took off, racing down the highway ahead of him. Far behind me, I heard the big, strong man laugh and call out after me in a mixture of English and Spanish, but then he donned his helmet and chased after me, ripping down the road in pursuit.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The mystery chased me all the way out of the city, down the highway for well over ten minutes, nearly all the way as far as Sierra Point in Brisbane, in fact. He was good, and his bike was fast, and he wanted it – and me – badly, but his bike was no match for the souped-up Kawasaki I was riding, nor were his skills a match for my life time of experience in riding motorcycles. We both picked up speed once we cleared the heart of downtown, and the further and further we got from the city center the faster and faster we raced. He made up a lot of ground, but every time he gained a few yards on me, I would hook a curve in the road at a nearly impossible angle, taking full advantage of my slimmer figure and profile as I sliced through the wind, and I’d shoot up ahead of him again; I stayed just out of reach.
Only, the further and farther and faster we rode, the less I felt like I wanted to stay out of reach. In fact, the more our little race went on, with my bike’s engine purring stimulatingly away beneath me and the image of my pursuer’s gloriously fine, cut chest and his handsome, chiseled face hanging in my mind’s eye, the more I began to consider something that – well, as a man – would have been unthinkable for me: letting him catch me.
Vrrrrrrrrr—oooooom… Vrrrrrrrrrr—oooooom…
We blew through Little Hollywood at well over eighty-five miles an hour. All five thousand some-odd feet of the place zipped by out of sight within seconds. It was like blasting through a popsicle stand. Meanwhile, in my mind, a life’s worth of male instincts played tug of war with the new, burgeoning desires of the female body that I had so recently acquired: As a man, I had always been incredibly, almost insanely competitive. I always had to win at everything that I did. That was one of the reasons I had become so successful – I simply refused to let anyone else beat me – at anything. I could be graceful in a temporary setback, but I’d always come back faster and harder and smarter and stronger and better for the next round. I never gave up. I never let myself accept losing, not when there was someone else who might be winning at my expense. In fact, during my brief stint as an amateur street fighter, several of my friends and coworkers had actually needed to stage an intervention and beg me to stop fighting, because despite the fact that I was completely terrible at it, I kept trying and trying to be better, get better, find a way to win, and if my friends and coworkers hadn’t managed to talk me out of getting back into the ring after my third stint in the hospital, I might have died there one day.
But here I was, now, racing this man I had never met before, a man who had just casually challenged me to a simple b
iking duel. Not even a real challenge, either, just… a form of flirtation, and yet… all of the male instincts that I had accumulated over the course of my long, successful male life were telling me to win, and showing me how. It would be easy, I knew – it would be like taking candy from a baby. Only, to my surprise, I wasn’t really enjoying the prospect of winning this time. I mean, yeah, sure, I was enjoying the chase, the excitement of the hunt, of being desired and pursued, but it was beginning to occur to me, the longer that the chase went on, tha … getting away wasn’t what was really exciting about being chased, in this context. It wasn’t how I wanted to ‘win.’ The truth was… what was most exciting about being chased by a hot, large, sexy man in this smaller, sexy, female body, was waiting for him to catch me. I wanted him to catch me. I wanted him to ‘win’ … so that I could win. So that I could have him.
