Unleashed By Nair

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My entry into the 2019 Nude Day story contest. Please enjoy!


I really didn’t expect Nair to make a slut out of me.

I was between jobs — again — and had the house to myself after my wife dashed out in her scrubs to work the swing shift at the hospital.

Job-hunting was a soul-sucking exercise at best, and three straight months of fruitless searching and rejection had turned me into a stress zombie.

I’d been doing a lot of running at the nearby high school track to deal with the stress, but all it did was make me to lose 15 pounds in three months.

For me, stress often led to cross-dressing. Well, maybe just plain old hormonal surges were to blame. But stress made it harder to resist the urge when it hit.

“Urge” is probably too soft a word. When the compulsion to cross-dress hit, I called it being “in the grip.” When I was in the grip, thoughts of what I would wear as a girl, and how I would look as a girl, consumed me.

I called getting en femme “girling,” since I wasn’t just dressing.

I was normally able to quell the urge, out of deference to my wife, who made it clear that she didn’t understand or condone my “habit.”

But the grip had grabbed me, full force, the week before; and being a stress zombie in the grip of a cross-dressing compulsion had led to daily, but thus far furtive, girling around the house.

But the grip was still tightening, and it wanted more. I wanted more.

I depilated what I could easily hide away in summer clothing. I shaved my armpits daily. (My arms were naturally almost hairless.)

This past week, I succumbed to a mad urge, and waxed my pubes bare, at which my wife raised a skeptical eyebrow. But she bought my explanation that it was to keep crotch rot away in the summer heat. Besides, she liked going down on me when I was bare down there, with no pubic hair to tickle her nose.

Depilating my legs had been off limits so far, since it would have been difficult to hide their hairless state in shorts, but the grip was becoming insistent.

It didn’t help that the backs of my legs were mostly hairless, and the sight of myself from the rear en femme was entrancing. (Heck, I sometimes got whistled at when I was tight jeans, much to my wife’s annoyance.)

So a bottle of Nair went into the shopping basket during yesterday’s errand to Target.

I eyed the Nair as I sat naked on the edge of the tub. I shook it, poured out a dollop onto my palm, and started coating my legs from my toes to my groin.

I gazed at the mirrored wall opposite and admired the smooth, even coating as I stood in the tub, waiting for the Nair to work its magic.

It stung my fair skin slightly, and I imagined I could almost smell the hair on my legs melting.

The timer went off, and I ran the water as I unhooked the shower head, and wet a ready face towel.

I gently wiped the Nair away from my thighs as I ran a stream of water over the area. Then I started on my calves, where most of my sparse hair was to be found.

“Holy crap!” I thought, as the goop disappeared to reveal smooth, pink skin.

“Oh, holy shit!” My mouth was suddenly dry, and my heart raced as I drank in the sight of my beautiful, hairless legs.

I completed a thorough rinse, slicked on some after-shower sesame oil, and gently shaved away any stray hairs.

After patting my legs dry, I took stock as I applied a moisturizer.

My feet were suddenly pretty, now that any smudge of hair was gone from my toes and the tops of my feet.

My shins were almost shiny, breathtakingly creamy, and slightly pink, and the long, smooth-muscled lines of my calves looked warm and soft.

The hair under my kneecaps was completely gone, and my knees actually looked nice.

Now that the shadow of hair was gone from my thighs, I could see that my almost daily running had burned away all bulk from them, leaving them long and lean. “Wow, I almost have a thigh gap!” I thought as I gazed at the smooth-skinned apparition in the mirror.

I wore a 36 inseam despite being just under average height, and my newly hairless legs looked miles long.

I sat at my wife’s bureau, raiding her makeup. Her complexion was a couple of shades lighter than mine, which let me match my facial complexion to the fairness of my body. My moon face and cream-colored skin came from my Chinese mother, while my long-lashed doe eyes came from the Scots-Irish on my dad’s side.

I kept to a light foundation, soft brown eye shadow, mascara to highlight my long lashes, and used a peach-pink gloss on my lips. I put on my Hollywood disguise — a pair of oversized round tortoise-shell frames with no lenses — that accentuated my big eyes.

During my unemployment, my mass of wavy dark-brown hair had grown from its usual shoulder length (worn in a low ponytail) to the middle of my shoulder blades. I brushed it out, and found to my pleasure that I could pull it into a presentable ponytail at the top of my head. I secured it with a scrunchie, and went to raid my wife’s closet.

I immediately levent escort chose what had become my favorite shoes, strappy Cathy Jean heels in taupe. A strip of leather secured my toes, and a pair of what looked like small bungee cords strapped my feet in quite a fetching way. I admired my pretty feet in the pretty shoes, then stood and walked to the hall mirror.

“Holy fuck!” She stood nude in my hallway in high heels, her long bare legs creamy and pink, her slender torso lean and trim. She gaped at me, her lovely eyes wide in shock. She was me.

Nude, feminized, depilated, and toned, I was suddenly the hot girl of my dreams.

The view from the rear was spectacular. My wife had always envied my ass; she didn’t think it was right that a twenty-something man should have “the ass of 19-year-old girl.” My newly-Naired legs were creamy columns leading the eye to the flawless globes of my toned posterior.

I gaped at the mirror a while longer, then returned to my wife’s closet.

I chose my favorite skirt, a stretchy dark-green cotton mini with black polka dots. It fell to about mid thigh, and hugged my ass in a flattering way.

When I was girling, my testicles tended to contract into a smooth, compact hemisphere, and my cock retreated from its business-ready 5-6 inches to a 1-inch nub. (“It’s so cute!” exclaimed my wife when she first saw my package in that state.) I decided to forego panties, reveling in being naked and smooth under the skirt.

For my top, I chose a black cotton bandeau with a built-in bra and spaghetti straps. I had a set of silicone-filled juggling balls that jiggled and squished realistically; I slipped a pair of the squish balls into the bandeau. They gave me a perky pair in keeping with my slender proportions, and stimulated my big puffy nipples as I moved.

(My big puffies were the legacy of a teenage bout of gynecomastia, when my parents feared — and part of me hoped — that I was growing breasts.)

The hot girl with the long, smooth legs surprised me in the hallway again. I strutted and posed before the mirror a while, before I thought to grab my DSLR and tripod to capture my new self.

I was setting up shots in the living room when I became aware of the silence.

It was about seven in the evening on the day before the 4th of July, and it seemed like the entire neighborhood had gone on vacation. I peeked out the living room window at a silent street of dark houses. The grip suddenly seized me, and I went to freshen my makeup for a foray outside.

I peered through a crack before I let myself out the side door, then eased the gate open.

Out of habit, I had put our trash cans on the curb, though they wouldn’t be picked up until after the 4th. I paused at the corner of my house before I confidently stepped forward.

I looked up and down the street as I mimed arranging the trash. We were the fourth house from the corner, and the rest of the street stretched a quarter-mile past us. All was quiet.

I straightened, and reveled being en femme outside. The sight of my Naired legs and feet was intoxicating; they almost glowed in the midsummer twilight. I started to walk up my driveway to my front door when someone came walking around the corner.

He looked like a sophomore from the neighboring high school, returning from a workout. Nobody I recognized. His earbuds were in, and he was looking at his phone as he walked.

I was strolling toward him to return to my side door when he saw me. He stopped and stared. I strutted a little as I kept walking — just a hot housewife going about her business.

I waved, and walked to my gate, where I turned and looked over my shoulder to watch him pass. He stared unabashedly at my ass and legs as he ambled by.

As I passed the hallway mirror, I saw that my body and face were visibly flushed. My heart was hammering, and my mouth was dry. But I wanted more.

I remoisturized my feet and legs (and bare ass) to maintain their soft luster, slipped back into my strappy heels, freshened my makeup, and went on another foray.

The back wall of my property adjoined an alley, with an auto parts store beyond. The alley was quiet and dim as I let myself out the back gate.

A donut shop and an independent gas station shared the corner. A concrete service drive lay between them, the wide windows of the donut shop facing the narrow service bays of the gas station.

The service bay doors were rolled down. I knew that there were no cameras in this area, and that the attendant was locked in a cubby on the opposite corner of the building.

The donut shop was dark, and its windows were the mirrors of my dreams. I saw a slender, leggy girl in a miniskirt reflected there, enjoying the summer dusk.

My heels clicked on the concrete as I walked to the corner of the gas station and peeked. The pumps were empty, as was the normally busy street beyond.

I admired my Naired legs in the glass as I walked past the front of donut shop. I reveled in the soft breeze that ruffled beyoğlu escort up my skirt, cooling my bare ass and hairless pubes underneath.

I made it to the street corner without a hue and cry going up, and stood there a while as if I was going to cross the street, then retreated to my refuge as I saw headlights approaching.

Night had fallen, so my reflection in the donut shop window was brighter. My legs looked even creamier, and my face was alight with excitement.

I love to dance, and often danced by myself in high heels when I was girling. (The female’s part, of course.)

I danced with my reflection in the donut shop window, loving the vision I saw there.

I twirled and spun, trying and failing to get my clingy mini to flare, when a loud metallic screech stopped me short.

I turned, and saw to my horror that one of the service bay doors was now wide open. What’s more, a man stood there, one hand on the latch that he had used to yank the rollup door open.

It was Hank, the mechanic who owned the shop. I’d met him a couple of years ago, when my car was on the fritz.

Hank had a warm, affable manner, and looked like that Jorah Mormont guy from Game of Thrones — if Jorah rode a Harley.

When I took my car troubles to Hank, not only was I between jobs (surprise), but I was in the grip. (Maybe there’s a correlation.)

When I’m in the grip, I am, shall we say, aware of men, and of their maleness.

Hank exuded maleness. As I explained my financial situation, Hank just kept nodding and smiling down on me.

His maleness flustered my inner girl. My voice became higher and breathier, and when I finished with, “I’d appreciate anything you can do,” I sounded in my ears like a girl.

Hank beamed down at me, then laughed a warm laugh as I gazed helplessly and raptly up at him. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. And he did.

And I harbored a secret crush for Hank ever since.

Hank stood there now, still in his blue work shirt and work dungarees, staring at this leggy girl in a miniskirt who had been dancing on his driveway.

I spun and walked toward the alley.

Hank called, “Miss?”

I paused, seeing my wide-eyed reflection in the donut shop window as I watched Hank. He stepped into the light, so I took another step away.

“Miss? You have truly spectacular legs. I really enjoyed your dancing.”

I stopped and looked over my shoulder at Hank grinning at me from across the driveway. He took another step toward me.

A sudden compulsion seized me; I hooked my thumbs into the waistline of my skirt, pulled, and let it fall around my ankles.

I and my creamy bare ass stared at Hank.

He goggled, mouth open, but recovered quickly. “My God. If angels have asses, they must be like yours.”

I grinned, stepped out of my skirt, scooped and folded it in one lithe motion, and slung it over my shoulder.

I turned to face Hank, one hand at my shoulder, the other on my hip as I faced him full in the light of the donut shop.

Hank took in the hairless pubes that lay at the vee of my long, fair thighs. He stared at my face, then grinned. “Well, hello –“

I stepped forward and extended a languid hand. “Call me Carla.”

Hank chose to take my hand and kiss it. My heart did a small flip-flop.

Hank leaned in, still holding my hand, and murmured, “I think I met Carla the first time we talked,” and smiled.

I smiled up at him, heart fluttering, and replied, “Oh, Carla is always around.”

He drank in the sight of me, took a long look at the reflection of my naked legs and ass in the donut shop window, and sighed.

He gently prodded one squish ball boob, and said, “But this isn’t you, is it?”

I looked up at Hank, and yielded to another crazy, powerful impulse.

I dropped my skirt, yanked up my top with both hands, and thrust my big puffies at him. The squish balls fell to the ground.

Hank stared a long moment at my bared nipples, gently flicked my left big puffy with his finger (which made me gasp) and said, “Oh, I like you much better.”

Encouraged, I started to peel off my top.

“Here,” he said. I held my arms over my head as he maneuvered my top around my glasses and my ponytail.

As he slid the bandeau from my arms, he captured my wrists with one big hand, pulled me to him with the other, and started caressing my bare back.

I pivoted away from him, suddenly conscious that I was standing completely naked in a gas station driveway in front of my secret crush.

I studied my reflection in the donut shop window as I fussed with my ponytail, seeing my slender, hairless body in the altogether, almost glowing in the light.

Apart from a pair of strappy high heels, I didn’t have a stitch of women’s clothing on, but I had never looked or felt more feminine.

I danced a solo Texas Two Step as I pretended to fuss with my hair. Hank looked on avidly.

A hiss and a rumble interrupted our reverie as a rig pulled up to the stoplight. I sidled kağıthane escort behind Hank. The driver was on his radio, though, so he missed the show.

I smiled up at Hank and said, “Let’s dance.”

He peeked at the truck, then stepped into the service bay, briefly leaving me alone and exposed in the driveway.

Soft C&W twanged from the darkness. Hank stepped back out, held out his hand, and said, “May I have this dance, Carla?”

I took his hand as he led us into a Texas Two Step.

We danced back and forth for a bit, until a rumbling told of the truck about to pull away from the light.

Hank grinned, and pivoted us so my bare backside was exposed to the street. “Hank!” I hissed.

I looked at our reflection in the donut shop window as Hank danced us toward the street. I was probably 5’10” in the strappy Cathy Jeans, but Hank was a good half head taller.

The song ended as we danced into the light from the pumps. I spun away from Hank to face the street and look around.

A car passed by, but the driver didn’t look our way. My skin looked like cream in the gas station lights. My heart raced.

The next song had a faster tempo, and I started dancing to its beat. I looked behind me at Hank, who was dancing as well.

I danced my bare, girly ass directly onto Hank’s crotch. I wasn’t surprised to find a hard bulge there.

Hank put his hands on my hips to guide me to the target. I centered Hank’s bulge between my ass cheeks, and began milking him to the music.

I milked him to a rhythm of one long, slow stroke followed by two short, fast ones. I danced with abandon, still facing the street, not caring that I was completely exposed.

The sound of engines warned of approaching cars.

I turned to Hank, who scooped me up like I was a child, and turned to hide me from view.

I caught a glimpse of two cars at the light as Hank lifted me to shift his grip.

I snaked my legs around Hank’s waist. There was a honk and a hoot from the intersection as they saw a pair of creamy legs in heels appear.

I clasped my hands around Hank’s neck, and settled the globes of my bare ass into his large palms.

I wiggled my way to his bulge, and settled it against my asshole. He pushed it against me as we resumed dancing to the music.

More honking and hooting, then the cars drove away.

Hank turned, glanced at the now-empty street. He took two steps and pinned me against the gas station wall.

I gasped at the shock of the cool, smooth concrete on my bare skin. Hank met my open mouth with his own, and we kissed feverishly.

He slid one hand, then the other, under my knees, and opened me up. The feel of his hands, his hairy arms, on my depilated legs was electric.

Hank pulled his hips away, unfastened and unzipped his pants, and freed his raging cock.

“Hank, mmph!” as his mouth claimed mine again.

The copious precum on the head of his fat cock mingled with the moisturizer and sweat around my hairless asshole as they made contact.

He pushed my knees further apart and thrust, gently but insistently, and the entire mushroom head of his cock was inside me.

I was getting fucked like a girl, in public, completely nude, against a gas station wall.

Hank worked his cock head back and forth, teasing my sphincter ring to relax.

He broke off our kiss, gazed into my eyes, said, “Carla.” Then thrust.

His cock went through the ring, a couple of inches past its previous penetration. He held it there, pulled back, then thrust again.

The music changed to an upbeat number, and we started fucking to the music.

I was aware of my glowing, hairless legs bouncing at the edge of my vision as Hank’s fat cock split me in two.

Two cars passed by, one turning from the intersection, one even stopping at the light, but there was no outcry. So I didn’t care.

My entire universe was the man in front of me who kept whispering “Carla,” and the cock he was using to destroy me.

A hiss of tires, and a car pulled up to the pumps from the far side of the station. (Fortunately.) Its nose poked from the far side of the pumps near us.

Hank kicked his pants away, and carried me into the dim of the service bay.

There was a creeper there. Hank lay us on it with his cock still inside me.

We grinned at each other; I’m sure my grin was as lunatic as his. Then we continued fucking to a new song.

I’m glad that nobody came to investigate the moans and cries that came from the service bay shortly after.

Much later: Hank sat on a chair, shirtless, at the edge of the service drive as I tried to leave.

I’d fluffed my wavy hair out, and was pleased with the effect, as was Hank. I still wore the tortoise-shell glasses for disguise.

I stood on the service drive, wearing nothing but my hair and my strappy high heels, my skin seeming to glow in the dark.

Hank had dared me to walk home nude. I held my skirt, my bandeau, and my squish balls in a neatly rolled bundle in my hand, but Hank wouldn’t let me go.

I stood between his legs under the open sky. His hands roamed my smooth legs, lingered on my creamy, well-fucked ass, caressed my slim back.

My big puffies were rock hard and jutted almost an inch, since Hank would interrupt his sweet-talking to flick them, suck them, and pull on them.

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