The Bimbo Next Door

By Lyka Bloom

Gary has been hiding a part of himself, the softer, more feminine side. His neighbor, Brooke, has fantasies of her own, and finding a weak boy like Gary is just what she's been looking for.

When Brooke catches Gary in the act, she uses her knowledge to launch them on a journey of self-discovery. Gary will be made over, and placed in a role to be the perfect trophy wife for Brooke.

When Gary becomes Callie, he will put his entire former life behind him to become just what Brooke wants... The Bimbo Next Door!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyka Bloom
• Release date: Oct 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005744212

Lyka Bloom

Lyka Bloom writes various forms of fiction, but erotica has become a new passion. She preferstransformations and games of control, and enjoys exploring all the perverse kinks bubbling beneath the surface of sexuality.

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THE BIMBO NEXT DOOR:

A GENDER SWAP DARK ROMANCE

by Lyka Bloom

THE BIMBO NEXT DOOR:

A GENDER SWAP DARK ROMANCE

First Edition. January 9, 2020.

Copyright © 2020 Lyka Bloom

Written by Lyka Bloom

This is a work of fiction. All names, places, likenesses, events, and incidents are fictional, and are in no way intended to describe actual events.

For more, visit www.LykaBloom.com,

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1.

The Secret Girl - Gary, Part One

It began years ago, I see that now. I couldn't have been more than twelve, maybe younger, when I first felt nylons against my legs. For my cousin, who was exploring my grandmother's closet with me, it was a lark. For me, it was a revelation. There was no name to put to the feeling, not then at any rate, but there was a roiling and pleasant sensation that came along with it that I knew I had to pursue. It was something far beyond sex, for that was still a year away when my body would wake to the notion of pleasures of the flesh in that carnal sense, but it rattled me to my core.

I don't see how girls wear all this, my cousin said, looking ridiculous in the too-large dress and shoes he found.

Me, either, I replied, but it was a lie. I didn't entertain the thought of wearing such things regularly, but I had no doubt that I could see the appeal, enjoyed it even. The nights that would follow that would leave me with dreams of wearing clothes like this, but I understood, even then, the taboo.

It was this I thought of in the emptiness of the townhouse, now, the first quiet I'd had in weeks. Another failed relationship. She was nice, but dim, and I couldn't quite get past the way her mouth hung open when we watched television together, or the way she simply would not leave me be when we crawled into bed. At first, I was thrilled at the prospect of sex with her, but her lack of creativity or enthusiasm, coupled with my own waning interest in other aspects of our relationship, made me shrink from her when she attempted to initiate contact.

It was after a trip out of town, a visit to friends of hers who were marrying, that I stood in the kitchen of the townhouse and took a deep breath, looking at her on the couch, slack-mouthed as she rubbed her feet from the heels.

I don't think we should be together. Romantically, I mean, I said, all in a rush.

Throughout the flight, I had been practicing a speech, a way of somehow letting her down easy, assigning the blame to myself. It was difficult to push past the guilt and shame of the relationship's demise, feeling the weight of it square on my shoulders. She wasn't a bad person or a cruel person. She simply did not fulfill me, and our rush to move in together had been a mistake.

With the words out of my mouth, I could not recall the speech I had prepared, instead letting the revelation hang heavy between us, my hand on the faux marble, she on the couch, neither looking directly at one another.

As with all break-ups, a long and uncomfortable conversation followed. She asked if there was some way to change for me, and I assured her nothing was explicitly wrong with her. At the end of it, she gathered a few things and left, returning the following weekend to move the rest of her things out. At the end of it, we hugged and made no promise to keep in touch. In this, at least, we were honest.

It was well after college when I first shaved my legs.It had been in a rush of whiskey and sexual excitement, my mind whirling around the idea of my own femininity. With a tumbler of Coke and liquor poised on the edge of the tub, I'd shaved myself from the waist down, my legs a patchwork of nicks and cuts as I fumbled drunkenly with the disposable razors. I bought the pink ones, the ones meant for girls, and that alone excited me. After the work was done and I'd applied newly-purchased lotion to my legs, I rubbed them against one another, closing my eyes and sighing at the frictionless sensation of skin on skin. I'd kept them shaved for almost two weeks until the shame of it and the threat of exposing my legs as summer drew near forced my desires back into hiding a bit longer.

Now, with my girlfriend moved out, those old compulsions returned, and I no longer had to explain to anyone why my legs were so smooth. And, now that I was older, I went to work in slacks and wore shorts only around the house. It made little sense to deny myself. It took only a few days for me to once more shave my legs, this time with more care and better razors.

Walking around the two-story townhouse in bare feet and my hairless legs made me feel free in a way I hadn't in some time. Curling on the couch to watch television or read, my hand returned again and again to my calves, where I caressed my skin.

Two days later, the hair under my arms and on my chest followed, and I treated myself to lotion every night to keep my skin soft and silky, just like the commercials promised. In my flannel bottoms and tee shirt, I felt unreasonably close to my femininity, and I reveled in it.

My late twenties brought the first additions to my wardrobe. At first it had been simple items designed to highlight my habit of shaving my legs. Hose and stockings, which enhanced the smooth feeling. Panties, which I wore beneath my work clothes, a reminder of my hidden joy. A simple nightgown that I sometimes wore to bed when my body was hairless below the neck.

Along with that came the purges. A girlfriend that entered my life, someone who could never know my true self. I would bag these items up and toss them away, only to buy them again when the relationships soured or simply faded. In a way, it was like an old friend, a constant companion that waited for my return. There were no fireworks when I came back, only the warm pleasure of feeling soft and happy. I imagined