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The Hunger Part Seven
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Image by lucia ferri
In this, the last instalment of The Hunger, I want to talk as promised about those strange bedfellows – strength and weakness.

I mentioned an incident from my teens really to highlight the fact that, once you depart school, serial bullying becomes a thing of the past. Ok, not always but once school was out I quickly escaped that daily gauntlet of oppression. It was also the time – aged 16 – that the twin pressures of post puberty (the horror of all the wrong things developing) and the fact of the wider world’s reality biting me hard led me to attempt the change from inbetweenie into fella. Goodbye frocks, ta-ra falsies, adieu my beloved Boots 17. It wasn’t what you’d call a ‘purge’, girls. No guilt was involved. Simply this. I had the barest concept of being transgender. I was rapidly losing the girly certainties of my childhood years. As a teen, I couldn’t even begin to process the violent invasion of testosterone. It threw me, unnerved me. From early on, I’d followed stories about sex change ops but real information was thin on the ground. Sex changes were media-mocked phenomena that happened in another universe, certainly not to little confused t-girls from Zeroville in Essex. No, with the cards I’d been dealt becoming a man-thing, however unsettling the prospect, seemed the least confusing game in town.

But here’s he funny thing. In all that those wasted closeted years I mimicked being a regular bloke I made no effort to properly ‘man up’. I studiously avoided doing anything that would develop my musculature – and, as such, remained the butt of jokes for my amazingly thin bod. But why? Having decided to live as a guy, why didn’t I race down the gym as did my male friends who’d spend hours pumping up weights and building body strength so they could impress the girls. And, in truth, I found my extreme thinness totally embarrassing. I remember one day walking along wearing t-shirt and jeans and this guy stopped me. His car had broken down and he needed a push. At first, he asked for my assistance but then, as his eyes slid down past my shoulders to gaze at the twin matchsticks that passed for my arms he said, ‘ Oh don’t bother, Sandra.’ He called me ‘Sandra’!!! – a total stranger called me, dressed in 100 per cent man mode, ‘Sandra’!! Oh heavens, was I utterly crushed.

Another time, on a train, a lady asked me to help place her bag on the overhead rack. It wasn’t a huge suitcase or anything so (grudgingly) I thought ‘OK’. I went to lift it and barely got it off the ground, I huffed and puffed and got it to shoulder height before toppling sideways. Luckily, a tough guy breezed in, caught the bag, dusted me aside and stowed it safely. Again, huge red-faced public humiliation.

As I hit twenty – and was peer pressured into dating a few girls – my evident weakness became a real stumbling block. Girls, as is their wont, were like, ‘Do you mind carrying this?’ And I was like, ‘Sorry, I don’t do lifting’. Wow, did they get hopping mad at me!

The puzzle was why I was so averse to developing a more masculine bod. Here I was, trying to be a guy and yet… a part of me I couldn’t access wasn’t playing the game. Mentally, I’d just run run run away from any activity that threatened to change how I looked. What I’m trying to explain here is that even though my body was MY BODY in theory, it was as though it belonged to someone else and I was merely the tenant. I could use it for general living purposes but woe betide making any alterations to the basic model. That was an ok deal for me. Mostly, I could handle being a skinny stick thin guy. Beyond fielding the comments, looks and odd embarrassing situation, I didn’t have to engage with my physicality… until part of my ordeal hammered home to me that there were consequences associated these physical choices.

Midway through having his way with me, Mr Photographer stopped and said he was going to take a short break. He hadn’t yet penetrated me at this juncture but he had rubbed his cock over just about every inch of my flesh, kissed licked pinched and slapped every centimetre of my body and slapped cool oily lube you-know-where and rubbed it in.

‘I’m going to release you for a while provided you promise not to leave this bed’, he said.
I promised.
‘I don’t believe you;, he said.
I promised. Oh, how I promised. I practically pleaded my intention found a colony there. I didn’t realise he was actually playing a nasty little man-thing trick on me. It was a trick designed to demonstrate to me just how helpless I was – and I expect seeing that got him even more aroused. He undid the cuffs around my wrists and rotated me up from my prone position. He passed his hairy arms around me, hugged me tightly and tried to put his tongue in my mouth. I kept my lips firmly shut so he starting kissing my face and neck instead, grunting like an excited pig as he did so. My head was beating beating beating. I was thinking, ‘It’ll be fine, Luci. He hasn’t fucked you yet. No harm done. You can still get away’.

He asked for my promise to stay put again. I answered passionately, ‘Yes’. I was sure I had convinced him. My escape plan was simple. The second he stepped out of the studio I’d undo the ankle restraints, grab any items of clothing I could and race for the doorway and fire escape. I was a fast runner. He was a slow fat slob.

He kissed me again, a greasy smothering lukewarm kiss that made me shudder. Then he stood up and vanished next door. I waited for a two seconds then dived towards my feet. Half drunk, I hadn’t exactly scrutinised the manner of my chaining up. Expecting simple buckles I could unfasten, I was in for a small surprise. Securing each ankle restraint was a dinky little padlock, the tiny travel type they sell with wheely bags. For a moment I was breathless with shock, Then I figured, ‘Tiny stupid locks. They’ll break easy’. Not realising this was exactly what Mr. Photographer expected me to do, I began tugging and twisting the locks. ‘Break, break, break… ooooh, COME ON!’ I tried turning them against the metal. Nothing. ‘Grrrrrrrrrr! Break!’ A raw wave of desperation surged within me. My plan was crumbling. I threw myself at each lock with a fury, desperately scratching and shaking them. I lay on my back and tried another approach – kicking my legs free. ‘Oh god oh god that hurts!’ It felt like my ankles were about to snap. All my plans to sneak away silently shattered. I was most likely screaming aloud now in panic and sheer frustration as his voice cut in on me like a knife. He was back and I was still fastened to his bed.

‘Oh, Lucia, Lucia. You promised me you wouldn’t do that. Our Lucia’s a little bit of a liar, isn’t she?’ And yes, I actually felt guilty about lying to him. What can I say? Isn’t this how captors the world over break their victims – with simple inverted psychology?

It was about now that I made some surprising discoveries about body mass and the crude physics that govern weakness and strength. Logic assured me that while I still had my arms free I could somehow fight this creep off and get away. The passage of time and my indigent fury lent me an unnatural belief in my own strength. I was the fit girl who ran at least three miles every morning. He was the overweight smudgy bloke with the beer belly. No contest!!

Mr. Photographer climbed onto the bed and caught both may arms as I raked at his face. He held them perfectly still. ‘No, this isn’t happening’. I imagine it was like that feeling drivers have when they press the pedal and the engine dies. ‘No,I told myself. You just have to try a little harder. You’ll soon have this creep locked up in his own cuffs’. I put every human ounce of energy into pulling free. Everything I could muster and more on top. I let out the most almighty roar of effort. Halfway through, my tigress’ roar deflated into a frustrated squeal. Mr. Photographer laughed, delighting in my inability to break free. Oooh, how I hated him. But I still couldn’t figure out why my arms remained fixed. Not even the slightest change in position. I gazed at them with the intense stare of a demented general ordering his dead troops to stand up and fight.

Then, to emphasise his physical superiority over me he brought my arms inward, guiding pressing both my wrists together. I watched dumbfounded as he encircled them with one large hairy hand. With a savage thrust he shoved them up over my head and laughed, rubbing his chin with his free hand. I stirred and fought again but I was helpless against his grip. His one hand holding both my arms immobile – this was indignity in full technicolor action! It finally dawned on me how immensely strong a man-thing can be. I’d literally had no idea. The realisation came sailing in, jostling for position in my nerve receptors along with the intense pain in my wrists. They hurt so much. A man-thing was squeezing them together and there was nothing I could do apart from plead for him to back off. Never in my life, not even in the days of playground bullying, had my pride taken such a tremendous tumble in so short a space.

For a minute or two, after he relaxed his vice-like grip, I actually felt gratitude. Oh Lucia! You utter pudding! I politely asked if I could be allowed to go home. He answered, ‘I would have done if you hadn’t lied to me’. Then he started mouthing the same rubbish that when he’d finished with me I’d know what it was to be woman. He assured that not only would I thank him but that for years afterwards I’d come running to his cock whenever he called me. Naturally, his stupid words infuriated me. I struggled and resisted as Mr. Photographer cuffed my wrists again. Even though I knew he’d beaten me, I defiantly managed to get my left hand free for an instant. It flapped uselessly around like a broken kite in a wind storm. With my other limbs fastened securely, the creep’s knees on my back pressing me down, it was a gesture akin to waving a rescue flag from the fast shrinking deck of the Titanic.

If this was a comic book life you can be sure that the very next day I’d have hung up my heels for good and dropped my entire femme wardrobe off at the thrift shop. Next stop – the gym where I’d spend the next year doing a total Yukio Mishima, building and expanding my muscles until I could bend iron logs with my kneecaps and pull bollards out of the ground with my teeth. Then I’d return to face Mr. Piggy-eyes Photographer. He’d tremble as I closed in. He’d whimper and beg to know who this mysterious avenger was. Merciless, I’d rip all his shoes in half and eat most of his cameras, washing them down with ten gallons of high impact energy drinks. I’d finish by forcing him to use the last remaining camera to take a picture of my triumphant face as I threw him out the window.

But this is real life. I never was and never will be the vengeful type. And I soon came to understand why I favoured the frail physicality of the raving ectomorph all through my boyish years. Darlings. can you see the light at the end of Lucia’s tunnel.?Throughout my twenties and beyond I could fit nimbly and snuggly into every size eight I could lay my hands on. If only the dress makers had had a touch more consideration for us taller girls everything would have been daisy. After all, panties flashing from beneath the lower edge of your frock has never been a desirable look for a t-girl travelling by public transport. Eeeeeeeek!!!

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