ChatGPT

 I have a new drug, and it's called ChatGPT. If I thought that browsing - and occasionally shopping from - 2nd hand clothes sites was bad, this is is way, way worse.

Have you ever tried using generative AI to generate TG fiction? For a long time, I haven't, because ChatGPT required a phone number to register, and I didn't want to tie my actual phone number to these sick, depraved stuff I post on the internet myself ;) Moreover, I learned, too, of the environmental cost of running these AI models, which is another thing that turns me away from using them when not absolutely necessary.

Last week, though, I realised that you can now login to ChatGPT with an email address alone, and, boy oh boy, did I start to ignore the environmental aspect of it.

For me, this is a tremendous time black hole, I've lost hours, including more than half a night's sleep, feeding synopses into ChatGPT, asking it to write stories. I did ask for a couple illustrations, too, but I don't do that anymore because, a) it takes a really long time, b) I can't ignore the environmental aspect on that one and mainly c) it rips off honest-working artists. The stories are less of a problem in that regard, since being a member of the guild here, I am sort of okaying the procedure.

I was astonished with the ease the AI spews out the story, based on a short prompt. Of course, as many of you might have found yourselves, as soon as it detects too much femdom, it refuses to cooperate, but it's not too difficult to reframe the story setting to include just enough consent for it to continue (it's cool, the therapist makes the husband crossdress because she wants to help him, and deep down, the husband knows it's for his own good.) The stories are rather short and full of open discussion about the emotion of the characters, which sort of kills the forced fem vibe, at the same time, I cannot help but marvel how craftfully some of the dialogues are done, or at the ease of some passages (the same passages that have taken me hours and several attempts, mind you). In the end, I don't even enjoy reading those stories so much as I enjoy crafting the story synopses, feeding them into the machine and getting human-like feedback. As I've mentioned, hours pass easily, especially since it's a seemingly low-investment activity - let's just ask it to make something of this basic premise, but then hey how about we make it like this or we make it like that...

Below, I'm posting a story I managed to write by myself, before I got swallowed by the erotic use of generative AI. I got the inspiration for it when I was putting on makeup in the morning. That's also another fun thing I've picked up, but unlike other fun things, it rarely takes me more than 10 minutes a pop. The results are quite sobering, to say the least. Like many Bea's characters, I have always been of gentle features. Back when I still had hair, and wore it long, people would mistake me for a girl. But the makeup and the wig really bring out the masculine in my face. My delicate thin chin seems unmistakably angular and the beard, that does not seem to be able to grow beyond a half-translucent fuzz when unshaven for weeks, stands out as the shadow from under my foundation and powder, no matter how closely I shave... But I like applying it, none the less. For the occasional morning I get to be home alone, it's just the perfect form of good, clean fun.

More Sense

by Rosie

I was fighting tears all the way to the bathroom, telling myself I’d tell Claire to get stuffed. Just like my mother suggested. Well, she used to suggest it at first. The last time she practically urged me to stand up to Claire, take matters in my own hands if I wasn’t happy. So I would. Some day. Today, I was just happy not having to argue any more, not thinking about the cost, at least not until a minute later. Not until I was gently squeezing foundation on a makeup sponge.

Yet as soon as the cool cream touched the skin of my face, I felt something stir down there, a faint spark of excitement that grew as I further applied the foundation. An excitement that grew the more I wiped traces of masculinity from my face. Gradually, a different face was starting to appear in the mirror. A face that until a couple of minutes ago, I wasn’t keen on seeing ever again but now I could hardly wait for it to fully materialise. A face that didn't get yelled at. A face that didn’t get slapped, just kissed, and stroked and if a little forcefully still lovingly cupped.

My rueing all of the ways I had managed to disappoint myself was now just a distant memory, and the disappointments weren’t so much disappointing anymore as much as tiny blessings. The fact I had never gotten around to let my body hair grow back. The fact I had never gotten around to getting my hair cut again. The fact I’d let Martha, Claire’s mother take me to the electrolysis treatment, and get my eyebrows shaped and ears pierced as a part of the deal. With my lips now coated in a deep scarlett, it just made more sense.

Just like my puny muscles, that had failed to keep Claire or Martha from overpowering me, made so much more sense in the billowing sleeves of my yellow floral blouse. I did have shapely legs, so it only made sense to accentuate them with the four inch heels of my white pumps and pearly white stockings, and show them off with a skirt that hardly reached my knees. A purple satin skirt that clung tightly to my small but shapely backside, which made the memory of the embarrassing moments of the aerobics class Martha made me take pale into insignificance.

I couldn’t have taken more than a quarter an hour getting dressed, after last seeing Claier, but it felt like it was ages ago, so I walked over to her, sitting at our dining table with her coffee and the morning paper wrapped my arms around her, taking a peak of her breast in the collar of her blouse and planted a kiss on her cheek, just firmly enough to leave a clear print of my lipstick without messing it up.

The doorbell rang but before I could even turn towards the front door, I heard it being unlocked and knew even before her footsteps reverberated down the hallway that it was Martha, who had no qualms about using the key I’d given her for emergency use. Just like I knew she knew Claire was in, because it was a courtesy to her alone that she rang the doorbell.

For a second, I could admire, not without a hint of envy, how elegant she looked in her cream pant suit, then she pulled me into her embrace. I saw her notice Claire’s cheek and frown, but still let me plant a kiss on her cheek, fully confident that I wasn’t going to leave such a mark. And truly, I wouldn’t have dared to do the same to Martha in any case, so I just touched her cheek fleetingly, leaving but the barest outline of my moist lips. Anyway, unlike Claire, she had places to be this morning.

“Ready to see the doctors?” she said to me, and I could only nod silently, then smile and look away as I felt blood rush to my face.

“Well, let’s get the paperwork out of the way,” she said and placed a folder on the table. Claire reached for it across the table, opened it and arranged a couple of documents for me to sign.

I sat down and leafed through them distractedly.

“We’ve already gone through that, honey,” Claire said, pushing a pen over to me.

“No need to hurry, we’ve still got time,” Martha said, “Nothing wrong with being informed.”

Martha smiled at me encouragingly as I started to yet again read the consent forms, before finally giving up. Not wanting to admit defeat, I tried to avoid Martha’s eyes while I mulled over my decision. As if acting on its own, my hand moved up to the high collar of my blouse and I found myself thinking about how it would feel to be able to wear the same kind of a low cut top that Claire was wearing.

I reached for the pen, then stopped again.

“Do I sign as Melissa or John?” I asked.

“John for now, sweetie,” Martha said, “We’ll get that part sorted out later, okay?”

It was a warm, sunny day, and the traffic wasn’t too bad, the radio was playing music that both Martha and I liked, but I just couldn’t shake a vague sense of guilt that I just couldn’t put my finger on. Even when she walked me through the reception and I did everything I was told to do, the strange guilt just wouldn’t go away right until I felt the anesthetic mask on my face.

“Wait!” I gasped, and the mask moved away slightly.

“What’s the matter, sweetie?” came Martha’s voice over the intercom.

“I promised…” I began and sat up, “I promised my mother I would…”

“It’s so sweet you want to keep your promise,” Martha replied, “But your mother did say if you weren’t happy, now did she?”

“You’re right,” I said and laid back down again.

As the mask was fitted on my face, I basked in the feeling of relief that everything was going to just make more sense.