Morgan, closeted transgirl

"Yo, Ringmaster. You freeze up or something? Don't tell me you're that boring."

I ignored the floating, technically-not-naked woman and instead stared at the scar on my left forearm.

Or at least where it used to be.

"Oh? Oohhh. I see what's going on, haven't had one of you since the 1800s." She crossed her legs and 'sat' down, still two feet in the air.

I had to blink away tears as the other scars melted away. The Ring pulsed with an unpleasant but not truly painful warmth with each one. I looked at the genie or 'Ring slut' or whatever she was and said all that I could have.

"T-thank you."

Her face had a sad little smile. "You're welcome Master, or would you prefer Mistress?"

I shook my head, "Morgan is fine, but I'd actually prefer Master if you had to use a title. Mistress has some other connotations I don't like."

She nodded and crossed her arms under her breasts, causing me to stare at the chains she wore exposed then recovered her stiff little nipples. I shook myself, I needed to focus. Giddy anticipation caused me to run to my bathroom and infront of my mirror.

When people described dysphoria, they often said they were disgusted or horrified at how wrong their body looked or felt. That they were trapped in a piece of meat that didn't fit them. A prisoner in a body that didn't fit the mind.

I didn't hate my body. I actually liked some of it. I was tall, I built muscle easily. My eyes were a good hazel. I tanned instead of burning and girls were outright jealous of my hair. I liked having a dick and periods and pregnancy terrified me.

The Ring shouldn't work on me. I didn't deserve it to.

But when the patchy stubble on my face vanished forever, I fell to my knees and cried.

AN: First thing I've ever published and written entirely on my phone, so be gentle.