By the time I reached nineteen, I understood it for what it was: pure lust, nothing more. Love—real, lasting love—seemed impossible for me, a feeling reserved for others. I still believed, or half-believed, that I was attracted to both men and women, yet the conviction was riddled with doubt, a constant, nagging uncertainty that never quite settled.
I began dressing in secret as a girl whenever the house stood empty. I never looked entirely convincing—no woman's grace, no perfect silhouette—but the act itself thrilled me. The slide of fabric against skin, the mirror's forbidden reflection, the way it reshaped me for a stolen hour. Afterward, I would masturbate to thoughts of men—hard, dominant, using me. The idea felt grotesque in the aftermath, shameful and wrong, yet in the grip of lust everything blurred into normalcy, into need. Nothing else mattered.
The chances came rarely. I was meticulous: door locked, room sealed, servants kept at a distance. No one could have seen. I certainly never dressed that way when Cassia visited; I don't recall a single time she was near while I indulged. So how could she have known? The question lingers, unanswered, but it no longer holds weight.
None of it matters now—or perhaps most of it doesn't. That was my life then: a quiet prison of secrets, urges, and half-formed shame. Yet some pieces do matter. I cannot erase who I was, nor what they shaped me into. The manipulations, the isolation, the slow erosion of self—they carved deep scars.
Fate, however, offered mercy. A second chance. A new life. I was reborn as a girl—back in time, within the same bloodline, the same shadowed family. This time, in a body that finally matched the hidden yearnings I once buried.
There is so much more I could tell—of that previous life, its tangled regrets, its hidden hungers—but right now, I want only this: to live fully in the new one. As a girl. As my true self. I intend to savor every single second. Sixteen years have slipped by, and so far, this second chance has unfolded almost exactly as I hoped it might. I carried fragments of foresight from before—enough to glimpse the dangers, enough to steer around them.
The first shift came early: Morwenna was expecting a boy for the household. Uncle Rowan had proven too broken, too unreliable to sire an heir worth molding, so the burden—and the opportunity—fell to my father alone.
You already know what would have happened if I had been born male again. The same patterns would have resurfaced, perhaps in subtler forms: Morwenna's relentless claim, her new tactics to reshape me, to string me along as her perfect puppet once more. The isolation, the spoiling, the slow theft of will.
But I am a girl now.
Her interest in me has dimmed considerably. I am no longer the prized vessel for her ambitions. She has not released me entirely—far from it—but the reins she holds are different. Tighter in some ways, looser in others. Because I am female, she has imposed far more restrictions: boundaries on where I may go, whom I may speak to, how I must carry myself. Rules layered like silk over steel.
Morwenna treats me in an entirely new way. So does everyone else. It is both a gift and a quiet cage—good in its sweetness, bad in its confinement. Yet there are moments I cannot deny I cherish: the way people look at me now, speak to me now. The deference in a servant's tone, the gentle appraisal in a stranger's glance, the way fabrics drape and sway against my body as though they were made for it. Being treated like a woman stirs something warm and alive inside me, something I never knew I could claim without shame.
When I was a boy, people invaded my personal space without a second thought. Casual gestures—someone resting a heavy hand on my shoulder during a greeting, a quick slap or tap on my back—were meant to seem friendly, brotherly, easy. I hated them. Every touch felt like an unwelcome claim, a violation of something fragile inside me that I couldn't name or defend.
Those were only the small intrusions. I don't even want to linger on how teenage boys treated one another: the crude language flung carelessly, curses peppering every sentence, the revolting pranks and bodily jokes I wish I could unsee.
And sometimes—more often than anyone admitted—they grabbed each other's asses in rough, laughing mockery. Fine, if that was their game among themselves. But the moment one of them tried it on me—yanking at my waistband, slapping my backside as a "joke"—rage boiled up so fast it choked me. I'd freeze, then erupt in half-mad fury, yet I could never fully express the violation. The words stayed trapped; the anger turned inward.
Now that I'm a girl, none of that exists.
I don't have to do anything at all. No one dares cross into my personal space. Hands stay respectfully at sides; shoulders remain untouched; backs are never slapped in passing. People measure their words before speaking to me—language cleaned, tone softened, edges blunted. Even my father reins himself in, his voice quieter, his gestures careful in my presence. It's as though an invisible barrier surrounds me—delicate, unbreachable, shimmering with quiet authority. No crude jests, no careless grabs, no forced camaraderie that leaves me feeling small and soiled.
I love being a girl.
The relief is profound, almost intoxicating. Every untouched inch of skin feels like a victory; every respectful distance, a gift I never knew I could demand without asking.
There is one thing, though—one glaring, unrelenting torment I ABSOLUTELY DESPISE.
PERIODSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.
What in the world is this cruelty? I have to endure this agony one full week out of every month? And it doesn't stop until I'm fifty, or perhaps even longer? There is no proper remedy in this era—no true escape, no invention that actually works against the tide of blood and pain. Someone needs to design something—anything—that finally defeats it. A real solution. A weapon.
I've been clever, scavenging for ways to manage it, but only a handful actually help. When the bleeding starts, I vanish from the world. I speak to no one, see no one—except Tamsin. If anyone else dared approach me on a heavy day, if they let me loose in this state, the entire mansion would shatter. Furniture overturned, voices raised, fragile things broken. I become a storm no one can weather.
Right now, I want to do it. I want to storm down the halls, find that old hag Morwenna, drag her out by the hair. Bring your sword, you witch—let's settle this once and for all. This ends today—
"Aaaaaaa—wnnwemw—it hurts, Tamsin. I want to die. Amsmam!"
The words dissolve into sobs. The mood swings are God's cruelest invention—vicious, unpredictable, turning me from rage to despair in the space of a heartbeat. Right now I'm curled on my soft, ruffled bed, tears streaming hot down my face, while Tamsin holds me close. Her arms are steady around me, her warmth the only anchor in the storm. We lie together in silence broken only by my ragged breaths and the occasional whimper, her hand stroking slow circles on my back as though she could soothe the ache straight out of my body.
"There, there—the pain will go away, Miss Lucia."
Tamsin's voice was soft, steady, a quiet balm against the storm inside me. She tightened her arms around me—firm yet gentle, cradling without crushing. My cheek pressed into the soft swell of her breast; the warmth of her skin seeped through the thin fabric, grounding me. She smelled faintly of jasmine—clean, sweet, delicate—and it wrapped around me like a secret comfort.
Even now, with faint streaks of dust clinging to her cheeks and strands of hair from her morning chores, she was breathtaking. Natural beauty, utterly unaware of its power. With a little care, a touch of polish, she could outshine most of the royal women I had ever seen. If we exclude Cassia, Mother Elowen, and myself, of course.
"How come you already have grown boobies?" I whined, voice thick with exhaustion and the lingering ache. "Why didn't I get those? I'm flat. I want boobies~"
The words spilled out needy, petulant, half-buried against her chest like a child seeking solace. Tamsin eased her hold just enough to pull back slightly, creating space to speak.
I immediately protested—acting every bit the spoiled baby—wriggling closer, pressing my face back into her warmth, giving silent, insistent signals: hold me again, don't let go.
A faint blush bloomed across her cheeks, soft pink against the dust-smudged skin.
"We're in our teen years, Miss Lucia," she answered gently, a smile tugging at her lips despite the flush. "You'll get bigger for sure. I just… happened to get them early."