trans=demic

In her home, and on her nights out, Sam became Samantha. Deterred, and delayed from realizing her
feminine identity by day, she had become a femme fatale of the night.
Date Night
Samantha assembled and swallowed her night time meds: a 400 mg Zovirax to control herpes she’d
gotten from a freshman year girlfriend, her first and last. In her new role as the submissive girl, she
needed her lips to always be blowjob ready.
She took her second dose of HRT, 4 mg. of estradiol and 400 mcg of micronized progesterone to grow
her almost b cup boobs; to 200 mg. of Aldactone to sissy-size her three inch dick-clit and cherry sized
testi-clettes; and the second dose of a Truvada in a 2 1 1 PrEP, to HIV-proof her for what she hoped
would be a sexy night. She douched her ass, showered, and moisturized. It was after midnight by the
time she’d finished her makeup and caging her dick-clit.
Her mind was still racing, imagining what she might have missed in the deal, angry at Josh for ordering
her to fake his signatures. She’d delivered the documents for the deal, a billion dollars of Class B office
towers, but if there were any problems, she would own a sizeable share of them.
She blew out her hair, applied cosmetics for a demure but enticing look, put on a black silk top and
pantaloons, silver stiletto heels and a silver metallic jacket
She opened her OkC app, connected with a hot Latino guy near DTLA, set up a meet up at her favorite
bar, then headed out to celebrate and to calm her rattled nerves with a drink, and, she hoped, a good
hard fuck.
The maître d’ of Elevation greeted her as Samantha, waived the cover charge and seated her at the bar.
Her favorite bartender, Antoine, ignored a Latino guy and waited on her.
“Are you having the usual, senorita?”
“Yeah but only after you serve that hot guy you just ignored and pissed off.”
“Of course, sweetie.

Antoine opened a Modelo for the hot guy and brought Samantha a martini, fuming grey mist from chip
of dry ice.