I Didn’t Plan to Change My Body…Low Dose Of Estrogen

Nick slumped into the apartment, keys jangling against the bowl by the door, the dim hallway light flickering as it always did. Another 10-hour shift at tech support, another parade of irate customers screaming about broken routers. His headset still clung to the back of his neck like a leech he forgot to peel off. He dropped it onto the table, sighed, and stared around at the quiet. ( Crossdressing Male to female Story)

The silence hit differently today. The apartment, shared with his sister Emily, felt hollow in a way that invited trouble—good or bad, he wasn’t sure yet. She had gone on a weekend beach trip with friends. No parents. No roommate. No obligations.

Just… space.

He wandered into his room, cluttered with work shirts, old game consoles, and a worn office chair that leaned slightly left. He hadn’t meant to start cleaning, but something about the quietness made him want to rearrange his closet. As he shoved aside old winter jackets, he noticed a collapsed cardboard box at the very back—flattened and dusty.

His breath caught in his throat.

He reached for it slowly, his fingers brushing the edges like it was sacred. He knew what was inside before he even opened it.

A tangled mess of memories: a cheap brunette wig, faded but still styled with a part he used to comb endlessly. A lace glove, its partner long lost. And at the bottom, a stack of Polaroids—him, 18 years old, standing in his old bedroom mirror in a floral blouse and skirt, face half-turned from the camera. His expression unreadable, caught between shame and something that looked suspiciously like joy.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, the wig in his lap like a fragile relic.

He hadn’t touched any of this in six years.

Not since college. Not since he decided to "grow up" and be "normal." Not since he buried Nikki.

The name came unbidden. He hadn’t spoken it in years, but now it rang in his mind like a song lyric stuck on loop.

Nikki.

His fingers trembled as he ran them through the synthetic strands. The scent of dust and old perfume clung to it. He remembered that perfume—he'd stolen it from Emily's room when he was sixteen. “Vanilla Crush.” Ridiculously sweet, yet every time he smelled it, he felt alive.

He swallowed hard.

Why now?

Why did the sight of this dusty wig stir something so sharp, so warm, so undeniable?

He stood abruptly, as if guilt might catch up with him if he stayed still. The box stayed clutched in his arms. He placed it on his bed like a fragile animal, not sure whether to leave it or open it further. His hands moved before his brain could stop them—unfolding the edges, smoothing the inside.

There it was: his old blue silk scarf, a pair of padded panties wrapped in tissue, a broken lipstick with the label scratched off. All of it whispering to him like ghosts of a version of himself he never fully allowed to live.

Nick sat on the edge of his bed, his eyes stinging.

He hadn’t cried in years. Not even when their parents divorced. Not even when he lost his last girlfriend because he was "too emotionally distant."

But this?

This hurt in a way he didn’t understand. A pang not of sadness—but longing.

He didn’t dress. Not yet.

But for the first time in years, he didn’t shove the feelings down. He didn’t bury the thoughts beneath masculinity and shame. He just sat there, stroking the wig like it was a childhood pet, and whispered to no one:

“Maybe I never grew out of it. Maybe Nikki never left.” The next morning, the apartment remained eerily silent—except for the distant hum of passing cars and the faint ticking of the kitchen clock.

Nick stood at the edge of his bed, staring at the open drawer box like it was a forbidden treasure chest. His fingers twitched. His heart thudded low in his chest, heavy with hesitation and heat.

He checked his phone: no texts from Emily. She wouldn’t be back until late tomorrow.

He had time.

Not just time, but space—uninterrupted, invisible space.

He crossed the hall slowly, barefoot on cold tiles, and crept toward his sister’s room. The door creaked like a tattletale, making him wince. Inside, the familiar scent of floral shampoo and dry shampoo powder greeted him like a memory.

The closet door stood ajar.

Nick’s breath caught. He hadn’t dared do this since he was a teenager, sneaking stolen moments between school hours and homework.

But today, something was different.

He pulled the closet open. Rows of dresses, tops, and skirts hung neatly by color. He bypassed the newer fashion pieces, drawn instead to a soft blue satin blouse—classic, delicate, with tiny pearl buttons. It shimmered faintly in the light. His hand shook slightly as he plucked it from the hanger.

Next came a black pleated skirt, modest yet flowy. Simple. Clean. Feminine.

He carried them like sacred fabric back to his room, along with a barely-used makeup pouch he found on her dresser—containing mascara, foundation, a faded lipstick, and eyeliner that he had no clue how to use properly.

Closing his door, he stood before the mirror, still clothed in his hoodie and cargo pants.

“One step at a time,” he murmured.

He peeled off the layers. The cold air against his bare skin made him pause, feeling vulnerable already. Then came the padded panties—slipping into them stirred a forgotten warmth, a sense of shape and softness he remembered craving.

He slowly slipped on the blouse. It hugged his shoulders differently, the fabric flowing like water. He buttoned it, each click echoing louder than the last in the silence of the room.

Then the skirt. He zipped it up, letting it fall neatly above his knees.

He stood straight, facing the mirror.

Not Nick.

Not yet Nikki either.

But someone in between. Someone soft. Someone closer to peace than he had felt in years.

He brushed the wig carefully, shaking out the curls. It settled over his head like a crown rediscovered. Slightly askew, yes, but beautiful. Imperfectly perfect.

His fingers hesitated over the makeup bag. He wasn’t good at this, but it didn’t matter.

He applied the foundation slowly—blending it with soft dabs, watching his reflection blur then sharpen. Mascara came next, clumsily painting his lashes. Then eyeliner—smudged, crooked, but endearing. Lastly, the lipstick: a quiet mauve tone that made his lips feel fuller, prettier.

He stepped back, blinking at the mirror.

There she was.

Nikki.

Not perfect, not polished. But undeniably real.

A knot swelled in his throat. He didn’t want to cry, but his eyes shimmered. The blue blouse framed his shoulders beautifully. The skirt swayed with the smallest movement. Even the uneven eyeliner looked like an intentional choice—like a girl still learning.

And in that moment, he wasn’t pretending.

He wasn’t hiding.

He was being.

Nikki spun softly, letting the skirt fan out around her thighs. She laughed—a light, private laugh she hadn’t heard in years. She grabbed her phone and snapped a selfie, then another. A video. A slow twirl. A little wink.

She felt alive.

Then… a hunger.

Not for food. For space.

To walk. To move. To live in this skin.

But that moment wasn’t for the world. Not yet.

Instead, Nikki walked barefoot to the kitchen, heels forgotten in the corner, and made herself a sandwich. She sat at the table, sipping tea, brushing her skirt gently as she ate.

Every movement felt amplified. The empty teacup sat forgotten beside a half-eaten sandwich. Nikki stood in front of her sister’s full-length mirror again, the soft sway of the black skirt catching the corner of her eye like a dance she didn’t know she knew.

She tilted her head slightly.

There she was again.

And this time, she didn’t look away.

The foundation was slightly uneven on her chin. The mascara on her left eye was thicker than the right. Her wig could use some teasing. But none of that mattered. What mattered was the feeling growing behind her chest—a slow, swelling warmth that had nothing to do with arousal, and everything to do with recognition.

She lifted her phone, but not to take another selfie.

She turned on the camera and stared at herself in video mode. Her lips moved silently as she mouthed the name.

“Nikki.”

It was like speaking to someone else—like a reunion. But not with a stranger.

With someone she hadn’t allowed to breathe in years.

She leaned closer to the mirror. Her fingers gently brushed against the glass, just above the cheekbone of her reflection.

“You’re still here,” she whispered.

And her reflection smiled.

It wasn’t a playful smile or a smug grin—it was soft. Pure. Almost shy.

Nikki raised one hand to her cheek, surprised at the warmth of her own skin, the way the blush had naturally surfaced, just like it used to when she was a teen sneaking into her mother’s closet. Only now, it wasn’t about rebellion. It wasn’t about thrill.

It was about identity.

This was who she was when no one was watching.

This was the self she kept hidden behind polite nods, low-pitched greetings, and oversized sweatshirts.

Her eyes began to shimmer again—but she didn’t cry this time.

She posed.

Tilted her head.

Curled one foot behind the other like she’d seen models do.

Let out a soft giggle when she caught herself doing it.

She experimented—practicing a more feminine voice, lifting her tone half an octave.

“Hi… I’m Nikki.”

Then tried again, clearer:

“Hi, I’m Nikki. It’s nice to meet you.”

Then, with a hint of a nervous laugh:

“I know I’m still learning… but I’m trying.”

The words felt silly and powerful all at once.

She took more photos—this time not as a secret, but as keepsakes. Memories of a day where something began. She would look back on them later, not with embarrassment, but gratitude.

And as she sat cross-legged on her bed, gently brushing her wig with slow, meditative strokes, Nikki realized something she hadn’t dared admit before:

She didn’t want this feeling to be temporary anymore. The afternoon sun hung lazily in the sky, casting amber light across the hardwood floors. The apartment felt warmer now, somehow alive with the quiet energy Nikki carried with her.

But she wasn’t content anymore.

Standing in front of the mirror had been beautiful—safe. But it wasn’t enough.

She needed… more.

She wanted to move. To walk.

To exist—as Nikki—in the real world, not just within the walls of her bedroom.

The idea started as a whisper, almost laughable.

“What if I just… stepped outside?”

Just to the porch. Just for a second.

The thought made her heart thump hard against her ribs.

She peeked through the living room blinds. The neighborhood was calm. Just a few cars parked. Mrs. Hedge, the elderly neighbor, was nowhere in sight. No kids playing. No mailman. Just stillness.

Now or never.

Nikki padded back to her room and slipped on the black kitten heels she had pulled from Emily’s closet earlier. A little big, but manageable. She grabbed a small purse—not for necessity, but for the way it made her arm feel when it swung against her hip.

Back at the door, she paused, hand on the lock.

Her pulse hammered.

“Just a second. Just the porch. Just one step.”

She turned the lock with a quiet click.

Opened the door slowly.

Felt the air rush over her like a second skin.

The wind played with her wig’s ends, tousling it gently. Her skirt fluttered lightly, her legs bare and freshly shaved, her lips slightly sticky from the soft gloss she'd reapplied.

One foot stepped out onto the porch.

Then another.

She was outside.

The world didn’t end. The sky didn’t fall. No sirens. No shouts.

Just silence—and the sun kissing her skin.

She walked forward slowly, almost reverently, toward the edge of the porch. Her heels tapped lightly against the wood. She took out her phone, hands trembling, and turned the camera on selfie mode.

The screen showed her standing under real light. She looked… different here. Not worse. Real.

She snapped a photo.

Then a second.

Then spun gently, capturing her skirt mid-twirl. She even tried a small smile and filmed herself saying quietly:

“This is Nikki… on the porch. Day one.”

But just as the words left her lips, she froze.

A car was coming.

Not loud, but close. She heard the soft crunch of tires on the gravel. Her body went cold, feet rooted in place. Adrenaline shot through her like a live wire.

She bolted for the door, trying not to trip over her heels. But as she reached for the knob—

The neighbor’s door opened.

Panic surged.

She lunged inside and slammed the door behind her, pressing her back to the wood, panting like she’d just run a marathon.

Silence again.

She peeked through the curtains, trembling.

Mrs. Hedge stood casually by her garden hose, spraying water on her ferns, humming softly to herself.

She hadn’t seen.

Maybe.

Nikki’s knees gave way and she slid down the door, laughing breathlessly, heart still pounding.

That had been reckless. Stupid. Dangerous.

And…

Exhilarating. Nikki lay on her bed, still wearing the black pleated skirt and soft blue blouse, the wig slightly askew from her dash back inside. The adrenaline had faded, but a different kind of energy hummed beneath her skin.

She tried to relax.

Tried to remind herself that she hadn’t been caught. That the world didn’t crumble. That everything was fine.

But it wasn’t just fine.

It was electric.

She sat up and glanced at herself in the mirror again—no longer just out of curiosity, but from a magnetic need. Her eyes, even tired, sparkled with something unfamiliar. Her lips—slightly parted, soft from the gloss—were still curved into a subtle smile.

She changed outfits. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

This time she chose something… bolder.

A short pink lace dress, one she had eyed in Emily’s closet more than once before. It zipped up the back and hugged her waist snugly. She paired it with sheer pantyhose and slipped on the taller heels—four inches at least. They pinched a little, but it was worth it.

She stood again in the mirror, this time striking a confident pose. The dress clung to her in all the right places, giving her silhouette a flow she didn’t recognize… but deeply craved.

And then it hit.

Not excitement. Not embarrassment.

Longing.

A deep, aching feeling beneath her chest. Not quite sadness. Not quite joy. Just… hunger for something she couldn’t name.

Her eyes welled up again—without warning. A tear rolled down her cheek, then another. No sobbing. No drama. Just soft, unexplainable crying.

She sat on the edge of the bed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, the mascara smudging lightly.

“What is this?”

The question wasn’t for anyone but herself.

Her body was reacting in strange ways, too. There was a warmth—not sexual, not fantasy—but like her skin fit better. Like her body was saying, This. This feels right.

Her chest felt almost tender. The curve of the dress across her torso made her want to cup herself, just to see what it would feel like to be… fuller.

She stared down at her flat chest and whispered, “What if?”

What if this wasn’t just dressing up anymore?

What if this had never been just dressing up?

She pulled out her phone and opened a private browser window. Her fingers hesitated, then typed:

“Crossdressing vs transgender feelings”

“Can crossdressing make you want hormones?”

“Gender euphoria first signs”

The screen flooded with forums, vlogs, and testimonials. She scrolled, eyes devouring every line.

“I used to just dress up occasionally, but something changed…”

“I started HRT after ten years of only dressing on weekends.”

“That moment when you feel more alive as her than you ever did as him.”

She leaned back, the screen glowing softly against her face.

Her mind was spinning. Was she overthinking? Was this just a phase?

Or had Nikki always been trying to come forward—and this was the first time she was being heard?