I Look Good

And I can't say that it wasn't worth it, because in the end I've got the somewhat smokey eye going on, an even foundation with even some basic contouring, mascara to emphasize my eyelashes, and a pale pink lipstick to make my lips, full and pouty, pop that much more.

I look good. Blushing perfect. Finishing the whole thing off with a touch of gloss on my lips to make them shimmer and shine with enticing attraction.

But true to form, none of it looks truly intentional. All of it has an effortless care that I worked really hard to impart.

Yep, I look good. Natural, almost. Heightened beauty without the slightest hint that I'd wiped away the whole thing three times and started over from scratch before I was satisfied.

I swept my hair out of my eyes and added a little hair clip in to keep it up and off to one side. A little bit of a tousle gave it that same kind of 'just stumbled out of bed' look as the rest of me and then I stood and took my reflection in.

And I loved it. I loved the fact that I was pert and contained. I loved the look of my makeup, the fresh faced blush of it. I loved the way my breasts bounced and swayed just slightly when I bounced at the end of my turn, the way my ass seemed to defy gravity and beg to be smacked, to be grasped.

The way my thighs started to blush when thoughts of what I would do to her ran through my head. Benefit of being bisexual, I guess, if I'm feeling myself I can be a little turned on just by my own body and I can start to touch, start to trace, start to build a fire that will build and build until the faux blush in my cheeks is overcome by a real flush beneath my skin that spreads down to color the tops of my breasts and flush even deeper between my thighs that beg to be spread, to be parted as I slide my hands down and...

Stop.

Shaking. Trembling.

Stop.

Because I know that if I start I won't stop and I am mindful of the fact that I have someplace to be. That I'm on a deadline.

But as I turn to my clothes to start picking through them for something to wear my mind turns as well to the promise, to the advice I'd received.

I've come to terms with the fact that Baba Yaga is real, that she visits me in my dreams. It's either that or I'm talking to myself and either way the advice I received is valid. I'm not going to take it unconditionally, but I'll still listen.

Taking joy in who I am, there is no way that I can argue that. Finding joy in every moment and embracing the essence of myself, the truth of myself, is something that I can't deny makes me feel phenomenal. All the little moments of being me, the freedom of being her, the zeal of youthful exuberance and the thrill of femininity. All of her softness belying a flexibility that I've never truly had the option to embrace before now.

I like being beautiful, beautiful and free. And when I turn to my clothes to pick something out for the day I've got that in mind. I want to be free. I want to indulge. I don't want to have anything constraining me and god I don't want to cover up anymore. No heavy layers. Loose fabric and letting my body press out through it, letting myself be seen.

There is a shirt. I had it as him and I have it as her. It's an older shirt, oversized. Big enough that it flows around me, the fabric not threadbare so you can't really see me through it but still it's thin enough that when the wind blows you can't just see my nipples, you can catch the puffiness of my areolas.

It's not decent. It's delightfully naughty.

I slip that on top and I don't wear a bra and I pair it with a simple skirt, pleated and short enough that it leaves everything below mid thigh visible. To solve for that I slide stockings up, hiking them up so the tops of them disappear just beneath the bottom of the skirt but, when I bounce, they're still visible. As are the plain pair of full panties I choose to go with it.

Black stockings, slightly sheer. Black skirt. Plain white shirt.

Panties pink.

Oh I feel like woman. I feel like a girl. I feel delicate and light and delightfully indulgent.

I love the joy of being me.

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