This is an original work of 'adult' fiction, for the entertainment of persons of mature age (+18yrs). It contains scenes and descriptions of 'intimate' marital activities, feminization and transgenderism, not intended, which some may be objectionable to some. Any resemblence to persons living or deceased is purely coincidental. This work was originally published by Empathy Press (POBox 12466, Seattle, WA 98001) in their books "Guys in Gowns 72 & 73". All applicable copyrights are held by the author and publisher. Any reproduction is strictly forbidden except by express consent. The publisher makes provision that no pay-for-access website is allowed use of this material in any form. In all other cases, by consent and permission of the publisher, the author is sole controlling agent with full copyright authority regarding posting of this work on the World Wide Web (aka Internet).

 

The Fortune Teller
by
Lorna Samuels

with deepest gratitude and thanks to
Sarabeth Sipple

for her loving friendship, encouragement,
and editorial contribution to this project.

 

When my beautiful wife told me what she had in mind, I nearly fainted with shock, fear, joy, and anticipation, all at once.

Out of nowhere, Angie handed my dearest desire to me on a silver platter, totally unaware that she was fulfilling my favorite fantasy. Nor did either of us ever dream how drastically both our lives would be altered by her desire to attend that party.

"We can pull it off too, Honey," she bubbled enthusiastically. (My frown of indignation was only maintained with superhuman effort.) "We’re close enough to the same size that we could make it work. And that whopping five thousand dollar prize will do wonders toward financing that honeymoon we never had." She eyed me critically then continued when I said nothing. "But maybe your big fat macho ego is too delicate to risk on such a venture, eh?" she chided, raising an eyebrow in that coquettish way that drives me so crazy.

I bristled (but snickered instead) while externally maintaining the macho/chauvinist image I had so carefully cultivated for so long to cover my "hobby". I thought, ‘Babe, if you only knew', recalling the silken texture of her nylon panties and sheer pantyhose on my skin as I attended the most recent meeting of the local TV/TS support group. X gasped at the possibilities my beautiful wife had just opened up for me, for us.

"Look," I countered, hoping my fluttering heart would slow down soon, "I’m not that hung up on this macho bit. You know that as well as anyone. Weren’t you the one that took me to that aerobic dance class?" She nodded. "And didn’t you insist that I learn how to use your sewing machine so I could mend my own shirts instead of bugging you to do it?"

Again a grinning nod. "Yes, yes, I know," she replied. "But that look on your face isn’t exactly a positive expression either, now is it? I just asked you to consider my suggestion. Ok?"

My amateurish acting was apparently holding up by her desire to move up the ladder" at the studio? Not for more than an instant did I believe she was solely interested in using the prize money to help finance our aborted honeymoon plans.

 

Angie’s voice pulled my meandering mind back to the present when she called from among the metallic clatter of dinner’s progress. "Well, Jase?"

"I’m still considering," I dodged, joining her in the small kitchen to start the salad. "What’s all these plans you’ve made with those friends of yours at work anyway?"

"I would think that was obvious. Their expertise is Makeup and Wardrobe within ‘Special Projects’. That’ll be the source of our costumes and disguises. I’ve put in my time in those departments too, you know."

I shrugged.

She repeated, "Well? Will you do it? Your ego isn’t so rock-hard that it can’t stand your wearing a dress and heels, is it?"

By now my effort at keeping up appearances was decidedly difficult, but I also had to say ‘yes’ eventually. I simply had to! "Suppose I was to agree to this bizarre request of yours? What then? What do you have planned?"

Her face brightened with hope as she sensed my impending consent. "Like I said, we’ll go in reverse roles, you as a dance hall girl like Kitty on Gunsmoke, me as a cowboy, maybe a marshal like Matt Dillon. It’ll all be terribly ordinary, really, like most of the other costumes I’ve managed to find out about, but with the essential difference that none of the men there will be wearing petticoats, and none of the women will be sporting a moustache and six-guns. (Heehee’)"

I considered stringing my charade out for a while longer, then figured I’d waited long enough. I shrugged indifferently and, affecting as neutral a response as could muster, muttered, "Ok, I’ll do it."

"Whoopeee!" she squealed, jumping into my arms, her full ripe body pressing against me, her moist red lips rushing to meet mine. She was wearing strawberry flavored lipstick. She tasted great

"It'll be so much fun," she purred when we finally case up for air. Angie gazed thoughtfully into my eyes. "Remember the other night while we were making love? You said you wished we could trade places so we could understand each other better?"

"Uh, yea," I answered hesitantly past flushed cheeks.

"Oh, please darling, don’t be embarrassed,^" she pleaded. "I’ve thought the same thing often enough. That’s partly why I came up with this costume idea. Now we’ll both get the chance to really see how the other half lives, even if it is just for a little while." Angela slowly untangled herself from my eager grasp and stood. "After dinner I’11 tell you what I’ve got arranged. We can even start working on some of it tonight." With that she strode off toward the dining room.

 

The subject of the Party was not discussed at all during dinner. Instead, Angie seemed eager to know what I had been doing that day. Being what I prefer to term a ‘specialist’, a movie lab technician, there weren’t all that many places outside Los Angeles where I could find work and still stay in The States. So, when the studio was ‘between projects" or the project I was on got held for some reason (weather, technical delays, script rewrites, location problems, or, more often than not, the tantrums of an egocentric star) I would end up watching soap operas at home for days on end, or tinkering with my car. That is where I was now, on "hiatus", waiting for something or someone to get the shooting going again so I would have "dailies" to run through the lab for some director.

For Angie’s benefit and piece of mind, I described some fictitious problem I had had with the wiring in my ‘39 Chevy Coupe that day. I hated myself for lying to her since I cared for her so much, but I could hardly tell her the truth, that I’d lounged away most of the day in front of ‘the tube’ in her blue bikini briefs, pantyhose, a skirt and blouse. My desperate need to share my ‘anomaly’ with her was a continuous source of frustration and anxiety. The deeply ingrained terror of discovery which I had developed over many years, along with the rejection it might bring about kept me silent and secretive, regardless of my desire to share my feminine side, my transvestitism, with the one person I loved most.

Now, incredibly, Angie was openly offering me that opportunity herself! I was both frightened and exhilarated by the prospect of being completely and professionally dressed up and attending that party, going out in public that way, all with Angie’s full and enthusiastic support and approval I was ecstatic!

When dinner and its leavings had been cleared away, we sat down together in the living room. I realized I was showing a bit of my inner excitement when Angie noticed the wry smile on my lips.

"Ah? A penny for your thoughts."

I reddened. "Well, ..uh.., I was just imagining what a ridiculous drag queen I’ll make. Are you sure we can pull this off?"

Angie’s laughter was followed by a fiendish sort of grin. "You bet, honey. And now’s as good a time as any to get started." She jumped up, grabbed my arm and yanked me from the sofa.

"What’s the rush? We’ve got three days," I balked. "What do I have to do for this whingding that’ll take that long?"

Angie is only two inches shorter than me at 5’S", so her low heels allowed her to look cc straight in the eye. "You’ve gotta learn to act like a woman, that’s what! And I’m gonna teach ya."

"W..What?"

She seemed slightly upset by my resistance. "Look! If we’re going to win that Five Grand, we gotta fool everyone. That means we both have to be thoroughly convincing in our costumes. Ok?" she asked, hands on hips, glaring at me.

"Uh.., it sounds like you’ve been taking method acting lessons. Or are you bucking for a teaching job at some acting school?" I chided good-naturedly.

"No," she responded with a broad smile. "I just want us to win so we can have a proper Hawaiian honeymoon, is all. Isn’t that a good enough reason?"

"Up," I agreed eagerly, not wanting to mention the other possible reasons that might be motivating her actions on this matter. "But I still want to know what’s coming."

Exasperated, she sat us both backs down on the couch. "Ok. We both have to be as believable as possible. We have to be who we appear to be, right?" Nod. "To do this right we both have to learn our parts, just like actors would. Until we reveal our true identities at the proper time and in the proper place, you must BE a woman in a calico gown and I must BE a man in a cowboy outfit. See?"

"I’m ‘between gigs’ anyway so there’s no problem with my having the time to devote to this little project. But, Angie, you’re working. What are you gonna do?"

"I can get Friday off, but that’s all. That means you’ll have to practice on your own during the day, for tomorrow at least. But I think the one-day will be enough for me. It’ll probably be tougher for you, anyway."

"How’s that?" I countered.

"Well, we gals can wear mannish clothes so I won’t have any trouble with my costume. You, however, will have to dress, act, and look completely against your nature. Gals can wear pants but guys don’t wear dresses, at least normal guys don’t." That comment stung, but I tried not to show it. She gave me a once over, then batted her big baby blues. "Honey, for the next three days I’m going to teach you how to be a woman. You’re gonna learn to dress, act, walk, and talk so perfectly that you’ll be totally believable."

"Oh boy!" I gasped, then added a theatrical gulp and a pause. "Well, I can handle most of that, I suppose. Except for one thing."

"What’s that?"

"Well, the clothes are no big deal if you can get some that fit me. But how in the world will I ever look female. That would take some really painful major surgery on my body, and I’m not about to let it go anywhere near that far!"

"And neither will I, dear. That’s why I’ve enlisted the aid of my friends at Special Project. They’ve got some stuff that can work wonders. In fact, I’ve got some of it here already, and we’ve also got a couple of appointments with them early Friday for our makeovers. But I want that part to be kind of a surprise so, well, you will just have to wait and see."

I watched Angie’s expression very carefully for a moment, then reached and pulled her into a long lingering kiss. As we separated, I said, "Honey, I want that honeymoon money as much as you do. Maybe more." I figured that might be the easiest explanation for my quick approval. It certainly covered my real motivation nicely. Yawning and stretching suggestively, I added, "But it’s kinda late, ya know. Whatcha say we hit the sack?"

Angie waved me to a halt. "Not so fast, my love." She wagged a menacing finger at me. "We’ve got to get you ready."

"Yea? Well, I was about to do that, wasn’t I?"

She wagged her pretty head. "Not yet, my dear, this is special. The sooner we get you started the better since you’ve got a long way to go, ya know."

"How’s that?"

"Come here and I’ll show you," she instructed.

Had I known what the next few hours and days were going to do to me personally, physically, and psychologically, even being a die-hard TV might not have been enough to convince me that $3000 and steady work was worth the price I was about to pay for them! Having fantasies is one thing; living them in the real world is a whole different ball came. But ... well the events speak for themselves.

In the bedroom where Angie had led me, I followed her instructions and stripped while she went into the bathroom. When I arrived there she had started filling the tub and was liberally dumping the contents of two or three bottles into the steaming water.

Knowing the answer, I still pointed and asked, "You want me to get in that?"

Angie nodded, grinned. "Climb in. You’ve got to smell pretty to be pretty."

The aroma of lilac assailed my senses as a thick layer of blue-green foam formed in the tub. The water was almost tolerably scalding when I stepped in, and sitting down was not a pleasant experience at all. Still, I’d never taken a bubble bath, at least not in recent memory, and it turned out to be rather pleasant once my body acclimated to the temperature. While I soaked, relaxing in the aromatic suds, Angie fetched her own shampoo and conditioner and proceeded to wash my longish hair. Cleansed, conditioned, and combed out, the moist strands reached just below the level of my shoulders. It struck me as odd that she used water from the sink to rinse away the shampoo, and later did likewise with the conditioner, but I thought little of it, at the time. The soothing rhythmic motion of Angie combing out my wet hair had me dozing in no time so I hardly noticed her stop and leave for a moment. Next thing I knew there was something cold dripping down my neck below my right ear.

 

"I choked.

"Don’t move!" Angie commanded, "and before you ask, I’m just doing what has to be done. Now hold still for a second." There was a very cold pressure at the base of my ear, then a quick sharp sensation. "Now turn your head this way." I did, seeing two ice cubes in her hand which she placed against my left ear. After a short wait, she removed the ice and dropped it into the tub, then picked up a large sewing needle with a heavy thread attached and I felt the same sharp pressure on that side.

I realized what she was doing, but my mouth just pulsed like a goldfish and Angie was done before I could get the words out. "Hey!" I finally barked, sloshing sudsy water over the lip of the tub. "Did you just do what I think you did?"

"Yup," she smiled smugly. "Every young lady in today’s world has her ears pierced, and with this salve they’ll be healed in no time too.’ She rubbed a thick white paste on my newly punctured earlobes before putting some more on a pair of silver star-shaped studs. She removed the strings from the new holes in -each lobe, replaced them with the earrings, and set the clasps to hold them in place.

"There, that adds just the right extra touch, don’t you think, darling?"

"Mmm...!" I grumbled glumly. This was already getting me far deeper than I had ever imagined.

When Ange pulled the drain plug I climbed out of the tub and got another of many shocks. I was naked! I mean totally denuded. All my body hair was floating in the tub, and I mean ALL of it! I glared at Angie wordlessly.

She simply shrugged. "Girls don’t have all that hair, now do they?"

"They at least have crotch hair!" I seethed through clenched teeth, glaring and frowning as I dried off my satiny smooth skin. There had to have been some kind of bath oil in there too. My flesh felt exceptionally smooth and soft, not really feminine soft but the combination of depilatory, hot water, bath oil, suds, and who knew what else, had given my normally rough hairy hide a sleek soft pinkish texture that was far more feminine than not.

"Well?" I blurted in disgust, feeling extremely exposed and naked as I wrapped the sodden towel about my waist. "Now that you’ve made me feel totally ridiculous, what other little gems do you have hidden in that scheming little mind of yours?"

Angie pouted mockingly. "Ah! Don’t be such a poor sport, Jase darling. Just remember you agreed to this. Now, as of this moment you are female." With a flourish she doused me with a floral scented powder.

I recognized the scent as her favorite, but my expression didn’t change as I slunk another notch toward total humiliation. She wrapped my wet hair turban fashion in a second towel • "The bath was only the first step. The work really starts now, so let’s go." Grabbing my wrist firmly, she hustled me off into the bedroom.

Looking around, I decided I must have dozed longer than I had thought. There were now a variety of packages lying about on the bed and piled on the floor nearby.

Pointing toward the various parcels, I said, "By the looks of your preparations, you’ve been working on this Party idea for some time."

"Sure have.’ She was opening one of the larger parcels. Approaching me with a strange looking flesh-colored object, she directed me to remove the towel from my waist and sit on the bed. "Some of this stuff is really hard to find," she remarked, indicating the various boxes and sacks. "The studio’s resources sure can be handy." She noticed me quizzically eyeing the item she held. "This is just a padded girdle, Jase. But its color is designed to match your own skin tone. It’ll fill out and add the needed girth to your hips and thighs." She guided my feet into it then began pulling the contraption up my legs. When it was up to my crotch she pointed out a tight little pouch built into the latex-like fabric into which I had to insert my ‘equipment’. Through our combined efforts, the apparatus was finally pulled up and over hips.

Realizing that certain ‘restrictions’ were inherent in the device, I protested. "Hey, Ange, with this on it’ll drastically deter any sort of fun and games later."

"That’ll wait ‘til after the Party, dear, 7" 1 was less than pleased with the prospect, to say the least.

She stood back. ".... There, that’ll do it. What do you think, eh?"

The effect was incredible. The padding added several inches to the expanse of my hips and the half-length legs were padded too, giving additional width and fullness to my thighs while producing a smooth line from hip to knee. I was further shocked to find the crotch appropriately adorned with a small inverted triangle of curly pubic hair.

When I saw what Angie was pulling from the next box, I could only stare at her in mute wonder and obey as she asked me to lie down on the bed face up. She applied some strange smelling salve or ointment to my chest. Then very carefully, she placed an amazingly lifelike silicone-filled breast to each of my pectorals. They had flared edges, which turned very soft and pliant as the material reacted to the salve. With great care, Angie smoothed the edges out all around each globe until the goo had set. The edges blended so smoothly into my own skin that I couldn’t tell where I ended and the breasts began. The two-inch disk shape of each light brown aureole and the half-inch nub of each nipple were perfectly simulated. It looked like I had suddenly sprouted two very natural looking breasts! She then spread some of the goo over and beneath the thin edges of the flesh-colored "girdle" at my waist and knees.

"My God, Angie!" I exclaimed as I sat up, the new weight pulling at my chest and shoulders. My arms brushed against their bulging sides as I rose. "They look so real!"

"Yea, aren’t they fabulous. And look at this!" She quickly discarded her blouse, bra) shoes, skirt, and panties, then pulled me up so that we stood together side-by-side facing the mirror. "See!"

Lord, did I see! From the shoulders down we were identical twins! Our height matched closely enough that it didn’t matter. Our hips now appeared almost exactly the same flaring width. Even the area between our legs matched, with my genitals pulled down and back beneath the ‘girdle’ so that, in combination with the small patch of curls centered over it, my crotch appeared fiat and smooth, but with a slight bulging that hinted at the presence of vaginal lips beneath. Yet, most amazing of all were the breasts! I had always loved Angie’s full firm C-cup bosom, often staring at them in open admiration for long moments as she slept, even covered as they usually were by her standard sleepwear of a nylon baby-doll. Now, I had a set of knockers that matched hers exactly. Even the size, shape, and location of the nipples was identical! My waist was much fuller, but that didn’t seem too important at the time. It was, though, as I soon learned.

"To get it just right, I modeled so they could match them exactly," Angela stated evenly to my unspoken question. "Aren’t they just incredible?" She didn’t wait for my answer. "You’re gonna look so much like me no one will ever suspect you aren’t Angela Taylor."

I reached up and gently hefted each of my new breasts. "They feel so real to the touch! You really went whole hog on this, didn’t you?"

Angie grinned toothily. "You Bet, bucko. And like the man said, ‘you ain’t seen nuthin yet’", she quipped, pointing at the remaining boxes. "Shall we proceed, sweetums?"

"Awe, what the hell," I shrugged. Trying to suppress my growing excitement, I spread my arms and shimmied my shoulders. "Sock it to me, baby," I camped. The swaying and tugging of the masses now bulging from my chest sent subtle shock waves through my whole system.

I thought maybe I’d shown part of my inner soul too soon when Angie gave me quick arched-brow glance, but it disappeared instantly as she laughed at my antics. "That’s it, honey, get into the spirit."

She reached for another box. "Ok, doll • You asked for it," she slurred Bogart-style.

It was my turn to laugh, albeit with somewhat less enthusiasm.

The next half-hour was spent jetting my padded frame dressed. I stepped into a pair of powder blue nylon panties that clung tightly to my expanded derriere. Next, Angie produced a white satin waist cincher that she insisted would help give me a more womanly figure.

"You’ll need to wear it constantly to train your middle," she announced as I felt her secure the reinforced band snugly about my waist, then proceeded to take at least six inches off my midsection. The pressure was like a giant hand wrapped about my stomach and squeezing as though my torso was a tube of toothpaste. Whew! It was uncomfortable, but bearable, just barely!

The next item she unpacked was a pale blue lace bra. Wordlessly I took it from her, trying to appear resigned and obedient while inwardly ecstatic at what she was doing to me. I made a big show of examining its workings, then stuck my arms through the straps and drew the cups up against my ersatz bosom. Straining to reach back between my shoulder blades, I purposely made a mess of fastening the hooks under Angie’s watchful gaze. As I anticipated, she smiled indulgently, shaking her head in amusement as she realigned the hopelessly twisted straps and hooked it up evenly. The half-size cups barely covered the nipples, and pushed the orbs together to display a firm deep cleavage. I was still somewhat dumbfounded and truly amazed at the way the breasts blended so perfectly into my own flesh. Even up close, I could no longer distinguish where I ended and they started. They were a part of me, though lacking any sensation, except their hefty tugging against my chest.

Angela moved around in front and glanced over my transformed frame approvingly. "Good," she declared. "Now let’s do something with your hair." She ushered me over to her vanity where I sat while she used a blow dryer and hot rollers on my longish locks.

She nodded approvingly as she checked over the results. "We’ll take care of the color later. It’ll b~ easy to change your light brown to match my auburn. But that’s low on the priority list right now, ok’?’

"Yea, sure, I guess.’ I swallowed hard while staring at the mirror’s image of a man’s face stuck atop a female body and framed ¹y that new feminine hairdo. I now had a full head of thick curls that hung just past my ears, but still much shorter than Angie’s gloriously long waves.

 

"A manicure seems in order," she murmured. Examining my stubby nails with mock disgust, she spent a few minutes cutting and filing, but after several fingers she stopped and shook her pretty head. "Tsk tsk, Jase, this will never do. Your nails have to be long and pretty, not stubby and ugly." She took a small box from one of the vanity drawers that I knew held an overwhelming variety of nail care materials, polish and the like. "That beautician’s course I took after high school is finally gonna come in real handy, eh?" she asked as she began to meticulously match and glue then shape and file long artificial acrylic nails to my fingers. With interest, I noted her use of super glue instead of the little sticky tabs in the package, but held my tongue. Somehow it just didn’t seem all that important, considering everything else that had been done to me so far. Soon I had very long shapely nails painted a flashy fire engine red. While waiting for the polish to dry she gave me a pedicure too, painting my toenails the sane brilliant crimson.

"Honey?" I asked after an extraordinarily long silence. "Couldn’t we just do all this Saturday before the party? Why all this trouble tonight? After all, its only Wednesday."

Angie never stopped working on my toes. "Look silly, we’ve already been over that. You’ve gotta be totally completely absolutely believably female. That means you have to even think female, at least for a few hours. Your walk, talk, body, everything, must appear unmistakably feminine. So you’ve got to practice.

"But I can do that without us going to all this trouble so soon," I insisted.

"Maybe you could," she conceded, "but I’m not taking any chances. If your body looks female it will make you feel and therefore think more like you look, like a woman. That’s why all the trouble now. With that dong of yours hidden away and all that padding, you can hardly think of yourself as male, now can you?" I shrugged my agreement. "No one who saw you, even now, would believe you’re not female. With those breasts and all the other changes, you’ll be able to really BE a woman, and that will help us win that fat cash prize." She blew on the last polished toe. "Ok, let’s hit the sack. We’ve got a long day tomorrow and we’ll have to start early."

"You want me to sleep like this?" I stammered.

"Of course, silly! You’re a gal now, remember. Besides, I’ve only got enough solvent to remove those breasts and hip pads once, so you’re stuck

"..heehee..."," she sputtered, "... with them until after the party. They’ll help you learn your role, anyway."

"This is really crazy, Ange. If you’re going to so much trouble to get me this way, why aren’t you doing the same?"

"Oh, I will, I promise. For tonight though, you’re wearing one of my nighties and I’m wearing your shorts and pj’s."

"Oh, big deal," I scoffed. "With that bod of yours you can hardly be much of a guy."

"True, but that’s the best I can manage at the moment. Now quit stalling and let’s get ready for bed."

True to her word, we wore each other’s nightclothes. I slithered into her favorite slinky, pink silk nightgown, the knee-length number with the low cut V-neck that reveals such a wide expanse of creamy soft bulging flesh. It slid over my hairless skin so sensuously I shivered.

I was greedily considering the interesting possibility of a night in bed with Angie in my present condition when I got my first really major disappointment of the evening.

Angie insisted on us sleeping apart! "You take the bed," she suggested. "I’ll use the hide-a-bed in the living room."

I could guess her reasons but I asked anyway.

Because it’s late and we both need to rest," she insisted. "We’ve gotta rise early since you’ll need help getting ready, and you’ll need a makeup lesson before I leave for work." My effort to mimic a hurt girlish pout must have been successful judging from Angie’s reaction. "Ha ha, you look so adorable! Not after a bit of kinky sex, are you?" My startled expression and blush of anticipation were mistaken for embarrassment. "Well, dear," she chortled, "you’ll just have to be disappointed tonight."

After a short trip to the bathroom, she handed me a large oval pill and a glass of water. Take this. It’ll help you sleep."

I objected. "You know I hate pills, Ange. Besides, I won’t have any trouble sleeping."

"Oh yes you will You’re waist is going to ache something fierce, and your ears are probably hurting a bit by now anyway.

I’d entirely forgotten about my newly punctured lobes which, now that she mentioned it, were throbbing as dull pain surged through each ear with every heartbeat. And the pressure bearing in on my stomach and lower ribs was decidedly unpleasant. Chalk up another point for the powers of suggestion. By now I was really uncomfortable. I took the pill, pulled down the spread and crawled beneath the covers.

Meanwhile, Angie stripped bare and trotted into the bathroom. The shower ran for only a few moments before she was out, dried, and back in the bedroom rummaging through my dresser. She grabbed some white cotton briefs and pulled them up over her flared hips. They fit her a lot more snugly than they did me. Then she stepped into a pair of my pajama bottoms.

"My jammies never looked so good," I smirked groggily.

"I’m sure," she retorted as she crossed to her own bureau. "This will help our little illusion until I can get something better." She held up a black knit tube top which I had always disliked since it’s tight cross-weave design flattened her gorgeous bust, turning her mounds into nondescript hillocks, barely more prominent than a well-muscled man’s pectorals.

After a curt nod at her reflection, she crossed to the bed, pulled up the sheet and comforter and tucked them firmly about my shoulders, then leaned over and -gave me what I had to call a motherly peck on the forehead.

"Pleasant dreams, sweetums," she cooed with a self-satisfied smile before turning out the light.

I mumbled an incoherent response.

Listening to the sounds of Angie setting up the sofa bed, I lay there in the dark, trying to come to terms with the evening’s events. My earlobes throbbed intensely. My waist felt like that giant’s hand was clenching even tighter. Yet, despite the various discomforts, I was still getting turned on! Erotic sensations resulted as I caressed my artificial breasts, or rubbed my hands over the expansive hips beneath the smooth nightgown. The silken material of the panties and gown against my sensitive flesh was also terribly exciting. I even got goosebumps just by staring at my flashy flame-colored over-long fingernails in the dim light.

My restrained manhood was trying valiantly to react from within its latex prison, but unsuccessfully. I reached down to liberate it from its cramped quarters, or at least make the attempt, but it was there to stay, at least for a few days. The sheath was built into the apparatus, and its tip aligned with a small hole that I assumed would be the means by which I could urinate. Even more interesting, however, was the presence of vertical ‘tissue’ folds flanking a really fantastic discovery. Probing carefully, I found that I had been given a simulated vagina that penetrated back into the latex between my legs. Experimenting, I found it to be pleasantly functional and promptly rubbed myself into a pseudo-climax, one hand between my legs, two fingers buried therein, the other set of fingers busy at my pseudo-breasts.

WHEW!!

Eventually, in spite of my discomforts, I slept soundly.

Angie’s voice came to me from far away, along with the gentle prodding of her hand at my shoulder.

"What a weird dream," I groaned, then was brought fully awake with a start by a wave of physical sensations. I looked down at myself then felt the studs in my ears.

"Oh damn!" I gasped.

Angie was grinning broadly in the half-light of early dawn. "Let’s get it going, beautiful ... gotta long day ahead."

"Okay, okay, ...ARGH.P" That last escaped my throat as I saw the clock. Five o’clock!" I collapsed back onto the pillows, my senses reeling at the sensations of swaying breasts, curly hair brushing my ears and neck, constricted waist issuing dull complaints.

‘Come on, Jase, my pretty. Lots to do, ya know."

I was exquisitely aware of my ‘additions’ as I crawled from bed only to be greeted by the astounding reflection of my physical appearance in the large vanity mirror. I looked in every way like a young woman just rising, nightgown askew, hair tousled, puffy faced, but all very feminine.

My mouth gaped open. "(GULP!)..It weren’t no dream, was it Ange?" I groaned sheepishly. Trying to wipe the sleep from my eyes I almost poked one out with a long sharply filed fingernail. Those nails were gonna take getting used to.

Angie’s grin widened. "Quit ogling that great new hod of yours and come over here." She sat me down at the vanity where a thick paperbound volume was placed on my lap. "This is your project for today, Jase, dear. I’ll do your face for you this morning, but I want you to read and study this thoroughly," Her slim digit tapped the book.

"Makeup, The Art of Feminine Beauty," I read.

"Now, Jason, I want you to use whatever of my cosmetics you require to practice. I’ll show you the basics this first time, but you must learn to do it yourself. You’re free to try my clothes too, if you wish

I stared at the confusion of feminine ‘necessities’ spread out before me on the vanity. Granted, I had dabbled in this stuff a few times, but never to this extent by a long shot.

"Yea, I suppose."

"Good. First we’ll do your eyebrows." Tweezers materialized in her hand.

"Hey! Isn’t that just a bit too permanent? It’ll take forever to grow them back." Then, before she could answer, I said it for her. "I know.., it’ll make me more believable." I shook my curls in dejection. This was getting way over my head!

The pleased smile on Angie’s lips showed approval as she plucked at my brows, the sharp little pains bringing tears to my eyes. It seemed that she would never stop either. When next I checked my face, the once thick bushy brows had been reduced to finely arched pencil-thin lines above each tear-blurred eye.

"When this is over," I mused, "I’ll have to wear false eyebrows for at least a month."

"No big deal," my beautiful wife said as she ran her hand over my chin. "Oh dear, you better shave before we continue, and use this." A small bottle was placed in my hand. "It’s a special shaving cream they gave me to help our efforts."

I didn’t even ask why it was so ‘special’. I just took the can and silently headed for the bathroom. With Angie’s willing assistance, I discarded the tight cinch, bra, and panties then took a quick shower, exploring the luscious latex curves I’d been given. Afterward, when the need arose, I discovered the pee hole functioned exactly as I’d expected, but, of course, it required me to sit, or get it all over myself and the floor.

Standing before that mirror shaving with that well-shaped woman’s body reflected back, I was a very strange sight indeed, long flashy-nailed fingers plying cream and razor. Weird! The cream had a strange astringent odor but it seemed to work quite effectively since I noticed that the blade slid along smoothly through my thin but tough stubble. When finished, I couldn’t even feel the light abrasive texture that was always there even immediately after shaving. My face was baby smooth.

"Hey, what is this stuff?" I asked as I handed the can back to Angie.

"Mmmm, very nice, and quite smooth," she purred, slim fingers caressing my smooth chin. "A doctor that does consultant work at the studio recommended it. It’s supposed to have a depilatory effect along with the normal shave cream function. He said lots of professional women use it, mostly models and actresses. Here, put these on while I get the cinch." She handed me a conservative pair of ladies’ white cotton panties and a plain white bra. Retrieving the cinch from the bathroom while I worked on the bra, she soon had it firmly secured about my waist.

"Now let’s do your face."

Obediently, I sat at the vanity once again while my lovely bride began the masterful but confusing process of turning my male face into a woman’s.

Stretching a wide elastic bandeau over my head, she used it to pull back and hold my hair out of the way. "That book," she indicated the nearby volume, "will give you the details, Honey. For now though, I’ll just show you the basics. And nothing goes on until your face is thoroughly clean."

"I thought it was, after that extra-close shave I just got."

Ignoring me, Angie sifted through the various jars, selected one. "We’ll start with a moisturizing cleanser." The white cream was dabbed on chin, cheeks, forehead, and nose, spread evenly, rubbed in, and then wiped away with tissue. I was amazed at the amount of dirt that came off with the cleanser.

"See how much you missed?"

"Uh huh," was all I managed.

She selected another jar and handed it to me. "Put some of this on now, just like I did with the cleanser, only use more of it."

"I thought you were gonna do this for me?" I objected.

"Don’t be silly. You’re not helpless, are you?" She was rummaging through the feminine paraphernalia on the vanity, selecting items and pushing others aside. She pulled makeup from a couple of the smaller drawers as I hesitantly spread base coat on my face. But when I picked up the tissue box she stopped me.

"What are you doing?"

"You said ‘do it just like the cleanser’," I retorted matter-of-factly.

"Silly! That’s your base coat. It stays on. Just rub it in real good until it’s even and fills in the rough spots. Besides smoothing out your complexion, it allows your makeup to go on better too."

"Oh," I grunted. Despite my dabbling in transvestism, my activity had never at any time delved into this phase of womanhood. I was in unexplored territory. Watching Angela do her face was one thing, having to do this to myself was a whole different matter. Even though I thought I’d done a fair job, Ange still went over it, pointing out places I’d missed like my neck, eyelids, and upper lip.

The lesson progressed, and it’s a good thing Angie had gotten me up early. It seemed to take forever, and she had to be at the studio by 9:00 am.

My left cheek was reddened as Angie instructed.

"Use your finger tips to apply the rouge in a sweeping motion, like this.... Now you do the other." I did.

She opened a small box with a clear lid: false eyelashes! "You’ll need these," she declared, showing me how to apply- the glue, then stretch the lid and work the lash up against the line of my real lashes from the inside corner outward. I did the second one, not badly either, I hoped.

Next, my eyelids acquired blue shadow. "This can be tricky, Honey. Don’t use too much, and be careful to spread it evenly from lash to brow, and cover the whole lid.

I often wondered why women didn’t poke their eyes with mascara brushes. They do! At least at first. I know! After the lash glue set, Angie layered a heavy coat of black mascara on one side, upper and lower, then handed - the minuscule wand. I slopped the stuff all over my lid when I poked myself and blinked at the resulting tearful sting, (tears don’t help mascara ya know.) which didn’t endear me to the stuff at all. But, with Angie’s insistence and patient instruction, it got done. If the mascara brush was dangerous, that eyeliner was downright life threatening! Yet, when shown how to stretch my lid sideways to provide a straight line of application, it was easy. My efforts weren’t quite up to Angie’s, but not bad, the brow penciling was simple by comparison, needing only highlights to the thin high arch left after her recent tweezing. Next, the whole ‘project’ was ‘fixed’ with a puff of powder applied generously everywhere, the excess lightly brushed away.

Finally, Angela selected a dark red lipstick that matched my nail polish. "It’s good that you’re lips are so full," she complemented while coloring my mouth.

"They’ll look much more natural." She had me press tissue between my lips, then added a second coat. Press. Gloss sealed the color.

During most of this process, I had been looking away from the mirror, using a magnifying hand mirror held by Angela to do my eyes, which allowed little opportunity for observation of her (our?) progress. A fleeting and very unsatisfactory glance was all I got as she turned my back to the vanity, pulled the bandeau off my head, and took a brush to my hair. As stiff bristles touched my ears and neck, I reached to feel the softness of loose curls, and was reminded of the studs in my lobes. Funny, I’d hardly even remembered them until that moment.

Finally, the brush stopped. "Okay, Honey, wanna look?"

I nodded sheepishly. Turning slowly, eyes downcast, I faced the vanity mirror, took a couple of long deep breaths that jiggled my heavy bosom and strained the waist cinch, before eventually building up the nerve to view the reflection.

She was really pretty! The thought brushed quickly by that if I’d known I could look that good, I would have tried this long ago! Granted, she wasn’t gorgeous. My squarish maleness showed through too much. Oh, the wonders that could be accomplished with the judicious application of a few chemicals, paints, and curlers!

Ange was pleased, too. "You really are pretty," she gushed.

"Yea, I guess so," I croaked, trying my best to act embarrassed while being genuinely awestruck.

The image that stared back at me was barely discernible as my own. I examined every detail of curled hair, earrings, full crimson lips and smooth creamy complexion, arched brows and long thick lashes, and her high rosy cheekbones, realizing that I was using femme pronouns to describe myself.

Angela must have been on the same wavelength. We stared silently at my newly altered image for several dozen heartbeats before she broke the heavy silence. "This masquerade is going to be even easier than I’d hoped. Especially if what we’re seeing now is any indication." She glanced at the clock nearby. "Oh, good grief! I’ve gotta get cracking! Jason, you’ll have to help yourself to my clothes. I’ll be late if I don’t get ready now."

"Whatdaya mean, help myself? I thought you were gonna help me with that too? And what about this padding and waist thing? I had this stuff on all night, ya know, and it’s really uncomfortable," I pleaded.

 

"I know it is, babe," she mused, shucking my pajama bottoms and the tight bandeau top she’d worn overnight as she headed for the bathroom. "Check that big green box on the chair while I shower. I’ll only be a few minutes," she called before the door closed and I heard water running.

Deterred somewhat by the board-straight posture forced upon my spine by the cincher, I tore my gaze from the mirrored femme-male image. Crossing to the overstuffed chair near the bed where Angie often did her late-night reading, I found a large lime-green box tied with white satin ribbon and a huge green satin bow. A bit garish, I decided, while struggling to loosen the fancy ribbon, encumbered considerably by extra-long nails which hindered my dexterity to virtual helplessness. Finally, ignoring caution, I tore at the bow and wrapping. Just as the shower stopped, I lifted the lid and turned back the gossamer-like tissue protecting the contents. Beneath lay a dazzling profusion of satin and lace which, when removed, proved to be a heavily boned corset of pure white satin with a pronounced hourglass shape reminiscent of Victorian days.

Drying herself vigorously, Angie appeared. "Like it?" she asked with a hearty smile.

"Uh.., yea, I suppose," I faltered. "But what’s... oooh, part of my costume for the Party, right?"

"Wrong," she insisted.

"B. .But I thought…"

"Yes, I know what you thought," she interrupted. Discarding the soggy towel to reveal her beautiful charms in all their glory, she continued to talk while assembling her normal working apparel: cotton briefs, socks, canvas shoes, denims, bulky peasant blouse, and a "flattening" bra (all to "discourage unseemly male attention" she always explained whenever I asked). "While I was in Wardrobe selecting our costumes, I found a few items that’ll help you acclimate to female ways, like what you’ve got there." She pointed at the heavy corset in my hands. "That’s your trainer."

"My what?" I gaped.

"Your trainer, Dear. Wearing the cincher overnight was only the first step. Your body has to match mine as closely as we can manage. That means plumping out your hips and chest, which we^’ve done admirably." She smiled widely and leered at the girth of my ersatz hips and chesty expanses. "Your waist is another matter since it must be gradually whittled down to the required twenty-four inches. Pulling you in seven or eight inches all at once could cause internal dosage, and we don’t want that, now do we?" The grin brightened even more as she took the corset from my limp grasp and held it against my body. "We’ll get you into this, then take it in a few inches at a time. By Saturday, you should be ready for the costume. Okay?"

I nodded numbly, recalling the masochistic corseting endured by women a few decades ago to achieve the idealized wasp-waist figure demanded by fashion of the times. Angie had that framework naturally. I didn’t, of course! So how was I to achieve it, even artificially, despite either of our desires to do so? My concern (dread?) must have shown.

Angela’s tone was sweetly conciliatory. "Look, honey, it won’t be so bad, really. That cincher wasn’t that uncomfortable, was it?"

"It hurt last night, but its not too bad now…, tight and restrictive, but not unbearable."

"See?" she encouraged. "It probably pulled you in a few inches too." Angie gave the corset a close inspection, released hooks and loosened laces. "Get out of that cinch and we’ll put you in this beautiful corset."

"Now? I thought the cinch would be enough for a while," I rebelled, eyeing the heavily boned satin monstrosity.

"Not hardly. Now unhook and let’s get this on you," she ordered. "I’m late already."

When dew sweet Angela uses that particular tone, you don’t argue. Unfortunately, my efforts at releasing the cinch were less than successful due to the ungainly presence of one-inch red spikes on my fingers. They were pretty, flashy and ultra-feminine, but not very functional, at least not at my current level of expertise.

With an exasperated "harumphf" and mild frown, Angie intervened by opening the hooks, despite her own long nails. I tried to figure out how she accomplished what I could not with similar appendages, but only got an impression of sideways pressure and a different approach to the leverage needed, that was going to take practice, for sure.

The corset’s severely pinched waist was really narrow, being fully attested to by the fact that it could not be persuaded past either set of pads. Envision, if you will, trying to crawl through a pipe several inches smaller than your chest and you have a small but adequate notion of what I endured. Now picture yourself getting stuck! Followed by a fleeting hope that it won’t fit, thereby saving further unpleasant physical distress. But don’t forget Angie’s determination either! Loosening the drawstrings to their utmost, she had me lean over again as she guided the fabric down my arms until the waist area caught on the silicone breasts dangling from my chest. Then, straightening me up, my arms were aimed at the ceiling (I was even on tiptoes for some reason), while she grasped the flared lower edges and yanked. I thought the sudden jerk would tear my ‘breasts’ loose and take some flesh with them, but the glossy smooth satin material saved my hide as the corset slid over the firm twin peaks, aided too by the jolt of inertia caused by my heels’ jarring connection with the floor. (Witnessing this activity, one might be inclined to write a testimonial as to the effectiveness of the adhesive that kept my ‘chest’ in place.) Still, further work was required since a couple more inches of downward progress were needed to properly position the waistline and get breasts arranged in the general area of the half-cups provided. Besides, the lace encrusted upper edges were still slightly above armpit level, which held my arms aimed skyward and totally useless to the effort.

The strain was costing Angie. Panting prettily, she considered the problem for a moment. "Bet up on your toes again," she commanded, wiping perspiration from her upper lip. As I mutely followed instructions, trying to ignore the crushing squeeze of ribs by a slightly padded steel vise, she got a good grip and yanked again, HABD.

"Whoof!" I exploded. As one, arms freed, breasts popped into semi-adequate cups, and there was a noticeable release of pressure on my ribs that had temporarily suspended the life-sustaining act of ventilation.

However, subsequently, my valiant effort at sucking in all the air in three counties fared somewhat better than my bruised ribs which were still being compressed, albeit less painfully, necessitating short rasping breaths rather than deep thorough gasps of sweet oxygen. My stomach was ~o less pleased with the situation although somewhat more easily molded by the corset’s engulfing pressure. The whole was almost bearable.

Then Angie began to tighten the laces! At least, that’s what it felt like at first.

The male Homo Sapien has his own uniquely masculine method of respiration. He tends to take long deep pulls that fill lungs and stomach with air. Thus, we men tend to breathe as much with our gut as our chest.

The instant that corset located its ‘natural’ positioning just below my ribcage and above my navel, I suddenly lost the ability (but not the desire) to breathe as my nature dictated. Try changing a lifetime habit in a few seconds, especially one as instinctive as your mode of respiration! I did. I HAD TOO! Even with the laces ‘loosened’, my gut was so densely packed into such a narrow girth there barely seemed room enough for my spine, skin, and maybe a few vital organs. Now the laces were pulled and the corset gradually narrowed my girth even MORE. If my stomach was still there, it was most certainly a mere ghost of its former self with whatever was left being well displaced downwards into my already cramped arid aching abdomen and pelvic region. And that was only the slack! (according to Ange)

Of course, Angie noticed my blue face. "Breath with your chest, silly!" she chided.

"Yea, sure," I gasped, immediately regretting the loss of precious oxygen as I followed her suggestion. (Was there any choice short of suffocation?) The reward was almost instantaneous, while not totally satisfying. The blue tinge of my skin faded toward pale rose, which wasn’t much Improvement in my mind’s eye. Nor was the shocking case of "heaving bosomitis" my panting lungs produced.

Angie snickered, eyeing the piston action of my half-exposed mountains. "Cute," she smirked, her gaze finally inspecting the balance of my feminization.

My lackluster response amounted to a breathy groan and a sultry scowl.

"Well, Dearest, I really have to be going." She pulled something from the closet and tossed it on the bed. "You should fit into that now, ...and these.." Three-inch black leather pumps joined the blue-green stripe cotton housedress. "You can use a pair of my knee-highs too. We’ll work on the rest later."

"I gotta wear high heels too?" I asked dejectedly.

 

"Yup, why not? I always dress ‘to the nines’, don’t I?"

I only nodded, avoiding with great effort the prospect of the concurrent pains about to be so generously endowed upon my person by high heels AND that horrendous corset. I wondered if there was a full bottle of heavy-duty aspirin available, because I’d probably need all of it by the end of this day!

Angela gathered up her purse. "See you after work," she called over her shoulder, "and don’t forget to practice your makeup." The Wicked Witch of the West would have cackled derisively in. her position. Sweet Angela just chuckled smugly, carefully closing and locking the door as she departed for the studio.

 

[You, dear reader, as an interested party (or you wouldn’t have read this far in the first place), are almost certainly wondering at this point why I, as an acknowledged died-in-the-wool TV, was not orgasmically ecstatic. Well, my friend, the TV part of me probably was, but other factors held sway at the moment. Frankly, I was scared SHITLESS! And my ribs and gut hurt like hell beneath the awesome pressure they were enduring. At the risk of repeating myself, a TV’s fantasies are one thing, their accomplishment in reality is a whole different matter! And I didn’t have to pinch myself to believe this was reality. It already hurt!

The sudden and unavoidable prospect of exposing myself in my present condition to anyone but Angela was, at best, terrifying. Despite her comments to the contrary, I didn’t think I looked that good. Certainly not good enough to pass for what, ultimately, I would try to be at the Party. And in my present state, even the most extravagant effort on my part to be either my old male self or to impersonate Angie was well beyond me. I could deal with phone calls, of course, but anyone at the door would have to be ignored out of pure necessity. And if the place caught fire? (God forbid!) Well, life IS general 1 y worth living, if you can get over the embarrassment.

 

Standing in the middle of the bedroom, clad only in panties, corset, and goosebumps, I fleetingly considered my alternatives, few as they were. The obvious move being to do as Angie suggested, in ascending priority.

Clothes seemed appropriate. I knew from various levels of experience and observation that the knee-highs were in a certain dresser drawer, but bending over to put them on proved to be a real challenge. The feat was accomplished, though, despite renewed gastrointestinal and structural distress. By comparison, the dress was a snap: over the head, arms through short bloused sleeves, the belt that was really only a cloth string tied at high ultra-narrow waist.

The material pulled snugly across my expansive shelf-like hip padding and the hem brushed at my knees. The knee-highs weren’t particularly decorous with that dress, but the general effect was far more acceptable to my internal TV fantasy self than had pantyhose been there to mask the sensation of the cotton fabric brushing against my bare knees.

The shoes fit fairly well, though tight in the sides and toes. Again, bearable.

I was dressed! More totally than ever in my ignominious TV life. Despite the discomfort, I was rapidly achieving that level of ecstasy attained only by those who realize the reality of a lifelong dream. But the rush of emotion and the accompanying chilly thrill were short lived.

I was hungry! And why not? Let’s see..., there was that late dinner last night. Then the bustle of activity before bedtime. Closely followed by that horribly early ‘wake up call’. And the last hour of really heavy labor. And no breakfast! Granted, my internal dietary barometer was under dire external stress, but the overall effect was a simple straightforward craving for nourishment.

Since very early in my bachelor days, I had long practiced the fine art of self-sufficiency, thanks mostly to an early and persistent education by my mother in the mysteries (to my father, bless his little "women’s work" mentality) of culinary engineering. Actually, I usually enjoyed the effort, except when it was demanded of me, which usually occurred mostly when Angie was held up at work. Otherwise, she genuinely enjoyed "being a good wifey".

The point being that I knew how, where, and what to do. Unfortunately, the project required my presence in another area of the apartment and I just couldn’t bring myself to leave the bedroom. Phantom onlookers lurked in every room and closet, around every corner, beyond every doorway, and I simply could not drum up the courage to face even those sprites of my overly active imagination.

For consolation, I turned to the mirror. And the image of that woman who faced me stared back with such grace, such allure, such overwhelming womanhood, I was instantly brimming with confidence. She was quite pretty. Even if she did look like she had my face beneath the makeup, it was only just barely mine. Nothing else was. Not the curly hair, or the hairless arms and bright nails, or the swelling bosom, or the flared hips and long tapered legs in high-heel pumps. It was startling, amazing, and, YES, gratifying that I could be transformed into such a believable woman. My-courage grew exponentially. At a distance, like from the windows of the facing apartments across the courtyard and pool, I considered that I might appear only as a shapely dame. Thusly, my nerves stilled their hyper-hysteric yammering as I pointed my bountiful silicone breasts toward the door and promptly tried to break my ankles as my heeled feet caught on the living room carpet. Those high altitude pumps were gonna demand some adjustments of my gait, especially when floor surfaces changed. And as I walked my toes were squashed firmly into the narrow points.

Managing eggs, sausage and toast with one-inch extensions on my fingers required further adaptation, but I managed, albeit messily. However, I made a major blunder by preparing my normal ‘healthy’ repast. To my utter chagrin, my consumption level was reduced to barely half the norm. I always enjoyed a hefty breakfast. It started the day off right. But the reason for my lack of capacity was obvious: the corset! Despite well-ingrained habit, I found myself picking petitely at the platter, nibbling tiny bites,

Awe! Admit it! I was acting the part. And that damned corset had me so squished together it only took a few bites before my indicator showed FULL (my mind said I was still hungry but my innards denied the fact vehemently!). The balance of that delicious preparation went down the disposal, and then I stuffed the dirty dishes in the dishwasher.

Now what do I do? Slink round all day in this dress? Lose myself in Angie’s wardrobe? Just as I’d decided on the litter, her instructions echoed almost audibly in my reeling memory: ‘...practice your makeup you’ve gotta do it yourself."

"Ok, babe," I winked at the femme-image reflected by the toaster’s silvery surface, "let’s get at it." Wiggle-jiggling back into the bedroom, I retrieved the book she’d given me and started the day’s "chore".

Hours later there was a terrible mess of opened containers, brushes, cotton balls, tissue, all strewn about the dresser and vanity, not a small portion of which was on the floor as well. Gawd! What a day! My face felt like a brillo-pad had been scraped slowly and repeatedly across every inch of hide above my Adam’s apple and between my ears. The extravagance, the sheer complexity of the operations I followed step-by-step was mind-boggling. But the worst part was stripping the whole thing off after I got through the final phase and was greeted by, in their order of appearance, a crying Tami Bakker; a whore after a particularly wearing night on the street; and a drag queen in bad health. The whole experience was completely discouraging. But I plodded on.

My fourth attempt at duplicating Angie’s Seemingly effortless yet artful work that morning was happily (to me) interrupted by my lover’s sudden presence. She had gotten off early and scared the living whatsits out of me when she threw open the front door with a bang, consequently revealing my inept visage to any and all curious viewers in the hallway.

When I dared to peek shakily from behind the bedroom door, I realized I’d gotten there with what had to have been the speed of light, despite my encumbrances -- corset, of course; different but equally tall sling pumps, new earrings in lobes sore from trying various studs, white blouse, smeared with makeup, and a burgundy skirt over a full slip. Belatedly, I realized I hadn’t even used the bathroom since she left, but that was fortunate anyway. The corset’s firm grip on my hips with the top edge of the parities beneath would have created considerable and possibly messy problems.

The evening that followed essentially repeated the previous night, with a few significant differences. First, with Angie’s somewhat irritated assistance I cleaned up the mess I’d made of her cosmetics before she showed me how to do my face properly. The ease with which she went about the task earned my even greater admiration now that I could appreciate the utter complexity of it as a result of my recent messily inept failures. Then the pleasantly attractive results of Angie’s efforts were scrubbed away, to the utter dismay of my facial nerves and tissue, before she very deliberately guided me through the whole process, my results neither equaling hers nor as bad as any of my previous attempts. To my relief, that’s where it stayed until bedtime.

Now I really did have nature screaming for attention. Accommodation was made by Angie, releasing the lower laces of the corset to relieve the pressure in the region enough to pull the panties free. My ablutions complete (the little pee hole worked fine, but I had to wipe away drops, just like a girl!), the panties were replaced by a pair of translucent pink nylon bikini briefs and the skirt and blouse changed as well. She also insisted on my feet never being free of the pumps, and made me walk almost constantly, or stand, for the rest of the evening. I had actually worn heels most of the day, changing several times, but I’d also spent most of that time seated at the vanity. My calves, ankles, arches, and toes objected vigorously while Angie tutored me endlessly until dinner.

Throughout our short but mostly silent dinner (a small salad for me since there wasn’t room for anything more substantial), and beyond, I survived a roller coaster of emotions.

There was amazement when I realized I was actually becoming accustomed to the corset’s "efforts", I suspected that my mind seemed to be tuning out the discomfort on an ever-increasing scale. Either that or the levels of complaints from the structures involved were decreasing their objections. I couldn’t tell which. But the aches and pains were perceptibly lessened.

Still, there was a rush of sheer, almost orgasmic relief when I was able to relinquish my ‘trainer’ and other garb to bathe (another bubble bath, including oil, salts, perfumed soap, ...the works). But the relief was all too brief, and the corset was replaced after I pulled on a pair of blue cotton briefs, then shrugged into a powder blue floor-length nightgown of semi-transparent lace (no bra since the corset managed that territory).

The torment imposed on my torso was only slightly less, but seemed almost manageable. But that was before Angela abruptly pulled the nightgown up onto my shoulders and began hauling in on the central laces at the corset’s waistline. She took another two inches off my midsection with swift but firm tugs, getting leverage by pushing on my butt with her foot and pulling with her weight at the reinforced nylon lacing.

"Whooosh," I growled as whatever small bit of air had managed to accumulate there was pushed from my stomach and lungs, giving the corset more freedom to compress inward all the further.

Reverting to the short gasping respiration the renewed pressure demanded, I took the pain pill and sip of water Angie so generously proffered before collapsing onto the bed. It had been a really long day and I was exhausted, for good reason, I thought.

Physically and emotionally drained, even before the pill could work and in spite of the shallow mode of breathing forced upon me, I was asleep almost before Angie had doused the light and once again headed for the hide-a-bed.

 

Bright sunlight punctured a pale red blur of discomfort onto my eyelids as I tried to climb groggily from a deep dreamless sleep. The curtains were opened wide to the radiance of dawn; the rose-white rays of light engulfing the bed and my diaphanous-clad delicacies.

Angie was just returning from the bathroom, wrapping her wet hair with a towel turban-fashion in a most distinctively feminine way. "Good, you’re awake," she commented easily, eyeing my bleary but motionless gaze. ‘Well, let’s get cracking, honey. Lots to do, ya know."

My avid tv-ism was at its lowest ebb in years. And the relentless pressure of that damnable corset wasn’t helping matters either. "Ugh," I groaned, rubbed satiny but heavily encased ribs and belly, the source of the ache that seemed to permeate my whole body. "Let’s just forget the whole thing, Ange. All I want to do now is get out of this ironmaiden corset, . . .pleezzz."

"Forget it!" she huffed. "We started this and we’re going to see it through. Now stop your bellyaching and hit the showers."

"Belly ache is right!" I growled, rubbing even harder at my imprisoned gut for emphasis.

Her stern expression was hardly encouraging, but my weak effort at black humor warmed her. "Get up and I’ll unlace you. You can’t wear it in the shower, ya know." (Yea!) "But it goes right back on afterward."

(D--n!) "We’ve gotta get your waist down to my own measurement and keep it there long enough that it feels almost natural to you. That way you’ll be all the more believable at the Party tomorrow night, especially if you believe yourself. And today the gals at work are gonna help us take a giant leap in that direction. So get cracking. We’re expected there at ten o’clock sharp!""

I fought the urge to object further. My pain threshold had always been pretty low anyway, so, despite the psychological high I continually got from my condition, my physical distress was pushing me toward rebellion. Even the prospect of only temporary relief was enough to push me from the bed and allow her to release the pressure and remove the corset. It was such a pleasure to breathe deep and long that I hardly noticed my stomach muscles bulged only slightly when freed. After almost two days of continuous restraint, they were unwilling to expand too broadly. Even the burst of soothing heat from the shower’s massaging spray failed to loosen conditioned stomach and abdominal muscles

The end result would most certainly be the same, but I still managed to temporarily avoid the inevitable by dallying. For effect, and to please Angie (myself, too), I made liberal use of her bath powder before again using that special shave cream.

When I mused aloud that I needn’t use the razor since my chin seemed to lack its usual morning stubble, Ange insisted, "Shave anyway. Your makeup will go on better."

Finally, unable to delay the inevitable any longer, I tucked the soft oversized towel together at my armpit, femme-style, to cover my ersatz contours and returned to face the ‘corset torture

Angie frowned as I approached. "You got your hair wet!"

"Yea," I countered. "It was dirty. So?"

She checked the clock. "So we’ve got the time, I guess. Sit down." Her nod indicated the vanity stool, which I quickly occupied, grateful for a further reprieve from corsetitis. But what she did to my hair and scalp were almost as bad. Heated curlers, hot blow drier, vigorous brushing and styling, transformed my longish locks into a decidedly feminine pageboy that brushed just below my ears. Followed by a quick replacement of the starburst earrings with hanging teardrop pearls.

My wife inspected her handiwork at arms’ length. "OK, time to dress."

My heart skipped at least two beats as I only just then spied the corset atop a pile of feminine finery on the bed. In a flash the protective towel was gone and a pair of white lace high-cut panties semi-covered my pubis-fakus. Taupe pantyhose were next, tricky too, with long fingernails, but they went on undamaged, with both of us working at it, mostly her. Then came the corset, although it felt like Angie took pity on me, the pressure was unpleasantly tight, though tolerable as long as I didn’t try bending at the waist and took care to maintain a perfect straight-backed posture. The full-length pale blue nylon slip whispered over my head and clung to my induced contours like a second skin.

Angie nodded toward the vanity and ordered, "Do your face while I get ready, and don’t overdo it either."

I didn’t. She only had to touch up the rouge (which I’d forgotten) and wipe away a bit of powder I’d managed to miss. "Why can’t we just go to this appointment you’ve arranged as ourselves?’

She just shook her head in frustration. Through a small frown of disapproval she said, "There you go again, asking dumb questions.’ Indulgently, as if explaining the sum of two plus two to a five-year-old, I got another mini-lecture while she perfected my face. "You may recall that there is only enough solvent for one use? And that’ll be after the party, right?" (glum nod) "And you’d look ridiculous prancing around in your tapered shirt arid tight jeans with those bulges. Right? Besides, by the time they’re done with us we’ll have made the transition almost completely. So first we pick up our costumes at Wardrobe then on to our appointment with ‘Specials’. When we leave there we’ll have each other’s faces. Ok, any more silly quest ions?"

Lips sealed tight, I shook my pageboy.

For the short trip to the studio, my outer attire consisted of a blue nylon sheath dress, low cut (as was the vast majority of my wife’s wardrobe), with matching pumps and small clutch purse. Angie wore her constricting bandeau beneath a plain white cotton blouse, gray slacks and black loafers, her hair pulled back in a severe bun. She was as "plain-Jane" as I was flashy.

Naturally, my anxious comments at "going public" fell on deaf ears, so, while Angie drove, I cringed in the passenger seat, hunkered down as far as my restrictions would allow, a gopher avoiding the fox, hoping against hope that no one would recognize either of us, especially ME.

 

Thankfully, the short drive to the studio was uneventful, and our stop at Wardrobe was blessedly short. While I waited, cringing in the car seat, Angie collected several bulky boxes that they’d prepared for us and stored them in the trunk. I endured a few knowing stares (that’s what they looked like to my paranoia anyway), giggles, and whispered comments, mostly by Angie’s "inside" friends. But I actually got a genuine thrill on several occasions by several whistles and admiring male eyes doing once- and twice-overs of whatever they could manage to see of me. It was definitely a unique experience, since I’d never considered how other men might perceive me. I didn’t think I looked THAT good.

 

Then we arrived at the studio and I was faced with full exposure in public. Suddenly, the panics hit. I felt like an inept drag queen as Angie coaxed me from the car and toward a heavy steel security door with a glaring red-and-yellow sign that read:

SPECIAL PROJECTS

Authorized Personnel ONLY

 

Beyond was an alcove/office that was almost large enough for the desk and its female occupant. Her angular middle-aged face, short silver-flecked hair, and severe dark gray wool suit immediately reminded me of a prison matron, a cool competent one.

The woman never raised her head until Angie cheerily announced, "Hi, Vera. Is Sonya ready for us?"

Looking up from a pile of mail, Vera promptly shattered my vastly negative first impression by beaming a wide toothy grin of welcome. "Hello, Angela," she smiled broadly with a mouth full of even white dentures, then turned to me. "And this must be your little hubby, right? Oh, how darling! Looks like you’ve done a good measure of the work already.’ Before either of us could respond, she added, "They’re ready and waiting." A quick nod of her head indicating the thick steel door only inches beyond her desks "Have fun, sweetie," she smirked as we pushed through to the hall beyond.

Near the end of a long corridor was an open doorway from which a woman’s voice called, "In here, Angie. You too, Jason."

There we found three very attractive young women in a well-lit room. A long mirror, a counter and sinks beneath, with three large barbershop-style chairs covered one entire wall. It looked like a miniature beauty salon, until I looked elsewhere. Everywhere there were shelves, tables, counters, and drawers containing a vast array of paraphernalia, bottles, jars, masks, molds, brushes, tubes, etc. It looked like a cross between a Merle Norman’s and Frankenstein’s lab. A bulletin board on one wall held several snapshots of both Angela and myself, taken from different angles. Obviously, our hostesses had been doing their homework.

Initial introductions included various comments about my person. Most were similar to Vera’s, but nothing exceptional. They seemed to take my padded presence quite matter-of-factly; even gushing over what great progress I’d made so far. That's when I realized they had to have been the source of the gadgets and devices that now decorated my anatomy. I’d heard various rumors about ‘Specials’, as had probably everyone, but whatever they actually did was so secret that few people knew what they really did there, and ‘insiders’ never could be persuaded to talk about it. It seemed I was going to get myself a firsthand introduction to their mysterious activities.

Sonya was a tall redhead, the buxom brunette was Irene, and Renatta was the statuesque blonde.

Angie and I relaxed (so to speak) into two of the big chairs while the women, my wife included, discussed their preparations and we all drank a large pot of extremely strong and bitter tea. Even with sugar and lemon, the stuff was pungent, but I sipped it stoically as the four women talked. I never spoke at all and was never invited into the conversation, listening only halfheartedly to their casual discussion about molds and chemical compounds. I was amazed to learn that even a couple of doctors had been consulted and had offered their cooperation. Aside, I wondered how we could ever win that crazy contest if seemingly half the studio knew about our ‘unique’ plan!

By the time they actually started on us I had downed three cups of that pungent brew and was mostly through a fourth. Angie had already paid them a visit while at work the day before to get a jump on whatever was being done to us, so she went somewhere with Sonya and Irene while Renatta worked on me.

First, I was given a heavy plastic smock that fastened at my throat (barber shop parallel again, or beauty parlor?). When my face had been scrubbed squeaky clean, the chair was reclined almost flat as Renatta (she liked to be called ‘Nattie’, of all things!) made a plaster cast of my face.

"We have Angie’s cast already, of course," Renatta explained. "We’ll use the impressions to build design the forms that will transform your face onto Angie’s, and vice-versa."

The experience was similar to the dentist asking you to explain your philosophy of life while he does a root canal. Only this was somehow worse! I could not have responded had I wished to with warm plaster covering my mouth and straws up my nose to breathe through. Warm sticky paste soon covered me from ear to ear (they liked the pierced ears, "good effect") and hairline to Adam’s apple. By the end of the half-hour wait while the stuff hardened, I was claustrophobic enough to start hyperventilating and that elevated the dull throb in my ribcage toward a painful ache.

As the mold was gently separated from my face, gasped a few painful breaths. ‘Whew! I’m glad that’s done." My voice cracked oddly upwards a full octave into a low soprano range, almost feminine. I chalked it up to anxiety, and breathless r>lief.

Nattie just grinned indulgently. "Wash your face with soap and hot water." While I used the sink, she placed my face-cast on the counter then stuck her head out the door. "Sonya, Jason’s mold is ready," she called. Within seconds, Sonya appeared, favored me with a fleeting smile, collected the mold and was gone.

Nattie was now pulling bottles from a cabinet and arranging them beside the sink I’d just used. ‘Let’s do your hair while we’re waiting."

"Waiting for what?" I rasped the tone still strangely falsetto.

The latex molds for your face, of course," she bristled. "It’ll take a while, and doing your hair up to match Angela’s will occupy us in the meantime."

"Oh," I breathed inanely as she reclined me almost horizontal and positioned my head over the sink. Soothing warm water washed through my hair, then lotion was vigorously massaged into my scalp. During the wait for the cast to harden I had grown noticeably groggy despite the breathing problem. Now, the water’s warmth and the soothing massage lulled me so completely I nodded off.

"Had a nice nap, did you?" Nattie greeted my bleary gaze as she pulled a brush through my long auburn waves.

LONG? Auburn? My own medium brown had been darkened and given red highlights to perfectly match my wife’s. It had been dramatically and seemingly magically lengthened. Impossibly, Angie’s favorite hairdo now framed my plain angular Jason-face. The lush waves flowed over my shoulders to almost halfway down my back.

"What the ...? How the...?’ My voice cracked in an unstrained soprano as I sat forward with a start to stare at the long tresses.

"We’re experts," Nattie stated with unabashed pride. "And with the studio’s resources, we can do wonders. You’ll see more of that later. Actually, your hair was easy, just add a number of long falls integrated into your own hair, wash in the color, and YUILA! Nice, huh?"

"I.. (gulp)..guess..., but why does my voice sound so strange, like I swallowed a mouse? It’s so high and squeaky." The normal deep baritone resonance had disappeared, replaced by a perfectly pitched but hoarse soprano

Renatta explained. "That’s mostly the doctors’ doing. They provided an astringent elixir that you can drink which causes a slight temporary shrinkage of your vocal cords. It was in the tea," she added to my raised eyebrows. "Within a few hours the gravelly texture will clear and you’ll have a very natural feminine voice that should last for at least two days."

"Two days!?" I cried. "That means it’ll last well past the Party tomorrow night." Several four letter expletives occurred to my bruised identity immediately, none of which reached my "adjusted’ vocal apparatus. Instead I hesitantly croaked, "How long was I asleep?"

"Oh, about two hours. Long enough for me to wash and color your hair, add the falls, then set and dry it. Those falls really add just the right touch, don’t you think? Much better than Angie cutting her hair to match your length, don’t you agree?" Not waiting for my response, she answered my next unasked question. There was no wig cap or sharp pins, the long hair looked and felt absolutely real! My manicured fingers combed through the thick auburn waves that flowed over my shoulders. "The strands are attached directly to the scalp, among the roots of your own hair, in small multi-strand bundles with latex-base glue. The process is tedious and time-consuming, but well worth the effort, since the added strands look and act natural, avoiding the hassles of a wig. Until you return here to have everything removed, it’ll stay on too. You can shower or swim, whatever, since it’s essentially your own hair now."

"Oh boy!" I squealed, the new voice sounding shrill and whiney.

A distant voice carried in through the half-open door from far down the hall. "Jason’s face is ready, Nat." It sounded like Sonya, but I couldn’t be sure.

Renatta crossed briskly to the door, turned. "Relax for a few seconds, Jason. I’ll be right back." She disappeared, closing the door firmly behind her.

Her "right back" stretched into almost fifteen minutes, which I used to examine her handiwork. Climbing stiffly (corset, ya know) to my feet, I retrieved the heels I’d discarded earlier (to at least give my feet a respite) and posed before the mirror. Incredibly, the general effect came very close to matching Angela's body perfectly, but only as long as the facial features were kept out of the picture. Fascinating! When I heard footsteps outside, I guiltily kicked off the shoes and replaced the cape before dropping back into the chair.

Just as I settled in, Nattie returned carrying a covered head-mold. "Now for the final touches," she announced. Placing her burden on the counter nearby, she turned to the jumbled mass of shelves and drawers, pulling some small jars and brushes from the clutter. She also retrieved three of Angie’s pictures (frontal and both profiles) from the board and taped them to the mirror.

"This is going to take a while, Jason. I hope your patience isn’t wearing too thin yet."

"I’ll muddle through," I drawled. Trying to push my damaged vocal cords back down to a normal male range only got me to their previous upper limit. "Shit!" I thought. "Now I’m stuck with that too, literally!"

The final process was that of converting my Jason-face into an Angie-face. I have to give her due credit; Nattie was good, real good. My skin was again cleaned thoroughly before the latex ‘appliances’ were meticulously applied to my cheeks, jaw line, and nose until my face was almost completely covered by a piecemeal mask of latex. The material was so thin I felt her touch through the stuff. I’d expected the irritation of spirit gum but the liquid adhesive she used was no more caustic than water, to my great relief. Even the touch of the small sections of latex faded somewhat. Given time, I suspected my sense of their presence would fade almost completely.

Time passed rapidly as I watched with a morbid yet erotic fascination as the contours of my face were slowly transformed into an exact twin of my beautiful bride. The off-white of the various latex pieces produced a patchwork effect, but Nattie solved that problem quickly by brushing each area with a flesh-toned liquid that matched my somewhat blanched complexion perfectly.

Angela’s classically feminine features stared back at me from the mirror in open-mouthed wonder!

Nattie was checking my new face against the pictures. "Oh, damn!" she blurted.

I jumped, jiggling everything, noticing the soft brush of long waves against shoulders, neck, and ears.

She turned, pushed me back into the chair, and glanced at the clock. "Double damn! I forgot to do your lashes and we’ve gotta fix your makeup too."

"What’s the rush?" I queried. "And what’s that about my eyes?"

She rummaged through a drawer, collecting several items. "If you’re to impersonate your wife perfectly, we’ve got to give you her much longer lashes. The only way to do that with realistic effect is to glue them into place individually, which is definitely not a quick process. And since Angela will be probably be ready soon, there’s no time to dawdle."

"Oh... well, what the hell. Why not?" For some strange reason profanity just didn’t seem to roll off my tongue with the same emphasis as it had with my previously male voice.

The lashes were meticulously glued into place, one at a time, aligned perfectly with my own-shorter ones, top AND bottom, so that they brushed together and sometimes tangled slightly when I blinked. With-mascara added to thicken and augment their presence, I looked like I had a mild but no less prominent version of Tami Bakker’s grossly overdone headlights. Funny, on my new face it looked right.

Her ministrations complete, Nattie asked, "Can you do your own makeup?" I nodded. "Good, go ahead while I clean up this mess." She proceeded to putter about, cleaning brushes, sealing and storing the various jars and bottles she’d used.

Meanwhile, with considerable ogling and wasted moments just staring dumbly at my ... uh ... Angie’s, no, me-as-Ange, I began to slowly and deliberately makeup Angie’s (?) face. (One’s sense of identity tends to be sorely shaken when someone else’s face looks back at you from a mirror!) Touching the latex applications, my fingers almost believed it was my own skin. The tactile sense was only minutely ‘muffled’ through the ultra-thin coverings. Strangely, I was much more aware of the highlighting augmenting effect that my careful application of cosmetics had on this new female visage of mine. My efforts became more deliberate, more calculated, designed to accent, not cover.

I had just finished the powder and was glossing my full lips when I walked in the door! That’s right, I entered, or at least a very very good clone did. Seeing your own face on someone else is almost a religious experience, or psychotic, take your pick. My powdered jaw must have dropped a foot. Otherwise, I was frozen in place, staring at myself, .uh. her coming toward me. I knew intellectually that it had to be Angela, but intellect and senses rarely cooperate in these kinds of situations.

The square jaw had a detectable five-o’clock shadow and had dropped almost as far as my own. "Good Lord..! ….Jason?" she/he stammered in a slightly falsetto baritone that nearly drove me to fainting hysteria.

"Uh I swallowed hard, then chimed. "Your voice too?"

"My God!" he/she gasped thickly. "You’re perfect!"

I had only a few seconds to check Angela’s transformation before she pulled me to my feet and into a firm embrace. They’d done just as good a job on her as Nattie had on me, plus more. Besides the face that matched mine perfectly, her hair had been cropped and lightened to my old blonde-brown; shoulders were thickened beneath the white cotton shirt; flattened breasts now simulated firm well-muscled pectorals; nails cut stubby-short; waist filled out slightly; full hips trimmed down beneath the man’s tailored slacks. (I wondered how womanly hip girth involving widened bone structure could be compressed? But then, ribs were bones, weren’t they? And my chest was certainly narrower by several inches than just two days ago.) She wore men’s shoes, but even in my heels she was slightly taller (lifts? -- had to be!).

I was getting downright comfortable nestled against that solid shoulder, close to tears too (not my normal macho style at all!) from the ordeal we were putting ourselves through. Not to mention the disjointed psychological trauma of finding myself drawing comfort from ‘my’ own embrace.

FREAKY described the occasion perfectly as our hostesses stood nearby, smugly admiring the unique results of their skills.

"I think you’ll do it," Sonya stated evenly when we had finally disengaged ourselves.

"Thanks ever so much," Ange-as-me gushed girlishly, which gave her/his present form a swishy sort of demeanor that grated on me slightly. I noted the lapse of character for later reference. Considering what she had put me through over the past couple of days, I figured I’d get a chance to reciprocate soon. However, at that moment I just wanted to go home.

"Can we go now?" I prodded.

Ange-as-me turned back to Sonya and company.

"Sure," .. "Yes," ... "Of course," the three urged.

The trip back was different in several respects. Our eye contact was kept at a minimum by mutual unspoken consent since whenever our eyes met we’d both break out in fits of hysterical laughter (twittery high-pitched giggles in my case, deep guttural guffaws in hers). Angie drove, as before, but now to all observers Jason was at the wheel • And I wasn’t scrunched down half out of sight either. I was too busy using the little visor mirror to constantly examine every aspect, every gorgeous angle of those beautiful feminine features. GOD, I couldn’t keep my eyes or hands off that face. Fingers constantly fluttered over the lightly made-up contours, brushing and probing at lips, eyes, high-set cheekbones, ears, hair, neck, in a sort of disconnected attempt to convince myself that the attractive female image in the mirror was my own.

Every time Angie’s gaze strayed in my direction, through the chuckling she made comments like, "Oh Jase!".., or "brother!", or "weird, eh?", none of which I responded to beyond a sidelong doe-eyed stare. Then a fit of giggles would break my concentration. Walking to the apartment from the parking lot, everything felt so right! Angela even played her adopted ‘gentleman’ role to the hilt, opening the car door, just as I always did for her. What the h--I, I let her. I had a role to play too!

"Well," her stretched vocal cords bellowed as the front door shut firmly between us and the outside world, "here we are, ..uh, Angela! Haha!" Her eyes roved quickly and thoroughly over me, then checked her own features in the large mirror over the sofa, tentatively touching the face before turning back to me with an expansive gesture, arms outstretched. "Whatcha think, Jase? Can we pull it off or what?"

"T’would appear so," I conceded. "But more than a few people at the studio better have very tight lips until after tomorrow night or we’ve gone to a whole lot of trouble for nothing." I stared at my wife for a few seconds. "You know, Angie? My mind insists that it’s really you inside there somewhere, but it’s mighty hard to see it right now, especially since they fixed your voice too."

"Same goes for you, ya know," she retorted.

"Do you think we sound enough like each other to fool people we work with? Our bodies, even our faces are pretty close,’ but the voice could be a real giveaway." Mine still sounded too high and shrill to me, bat the early gravelly timber was gone leaving only a smooth feminine tone. I wondered if my new voice could even handle the highest operatic notes, but I wasn’t about to try.

Angela crossed to the desk and tapped the tape deck sitting there. "I’ve got that covered. I recorded us the other day when we first discussed the Party. Using this tape, we can get that worked out too. Wanna start now?"

A certain pressure in my lower reaches had been building over the past hour. "First, let me visit the ladies’ room, ok?" I camped, swaying and jiggling all my padded goodies (it was physically impossible not to in those high-heel s)

The balance of the afternoon was spent in an intense tutoring session as we adjusted our intonations to match the recording. Angie thought I was pretty close after an hour, but she just couldn’t seem to control her tone too well. Her new voice kept breaking into a high pitch, like an adolescent boy approaching puberty. Then I pulled out my little mini-cassette unit and we used it to tape our altered voices. Thus we could hear and analyze both our attempts. It worked. By dinnertime I was almost perfect while Angie had a bit of fine-tuning to do, but her tone didn’t break anymore and was rapidly developing into a natural deep resonant bass. Listening to and watching her now, no one could ever have guessed her true ‘nature’. Nor mine either, I realized.

Friday night was almost always our night out. Lately, though, that had been somewhat curtailed because of my lack of work. Thankfully, Angie never suggested nor even hinted that we go out to test our disguises. I’d have died of premature heart failure if she’d even mentioned the possibility. Instead, we had a late dinner at home, which I fixed -- "in character’, Ange insisted -- while she collected our costumes from the trunk of the car.

Afterward, we had a ‘clothes horse party’ that lasted far into the evening. Angie limited me to her underwear and dresses, no pants. (The ‘trainer’ came off for the time being - Yea!) She tried a couple of my suits and dressier shirts and slacks. Neither of us delved into sweats or denims, only the classier outfits appealed to either of us, it seemed.

Stripped down, I discovered that Angie had been put into a sort of flesh-tone latex body stocking that covered her from neck to knees and almost to her wrists. With incredible reality, her shoulders and waist were filled out, breasts (as I’d noticed earlier), hips, and thighs somehow compressed to simulate a trim muscular male torso. I had expected to see her frame ‘adjusted’ to some extent, but was completely flabbergasted by the lengths to which her friends had gone. There was hair! And it was everywhere it should be (chest, crotch, arms, thighs), perfectly simulated to mimic masculine distributions.

When she turned toward me for a full frontal viewing, my jaw dropped far enough to admit a small bus. They’d given her a cock and halls too! I gasped and forgot to breathe for a moment.

"Fantastic, isn’t it?" she cooed (if a baritone/bass voice can do that)

Unconsciously, I crossed my legs protectively in a reflexive and very feminine gesture. The latex simulation didn’t look particularly real, too much detail missing, and didn’t really come close to duplicating my own equipment. But it was real enough. Fleetingly, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was inflatable? And if so, would Angela want to try experimenting. I held my legs together a little tighter.

Her grin widened. "Too bad it’s not functional. That’d be a real kicker, wouldn’t it?"

I sighed with relief, swallowed my heart and remarked tentatively, "Y..Yea, I guess. Considering all their other talents, I’m surprised your friends overlooked that little detail."

Deep resonant laughter filled the apartment, but the subject was not pursued.

Except for a slight tightness in the hip area, Angie’s ‘suit’ allowed her to fit into my clothes quite adequately. With a little work at being more flamboyant and ‘mannish’ in stance and gestures, she would be perfect. Getting her to slouch slightly and swing her arms instead of her ass when she walked cleared up the impression that ‘he’ was a ‘flaming fairy". She accepted my critiques and adjusted readily.

Personally, I was in TV heaven! I was living my ultimate fantasy. My body possessed all the properly ample fleshiness and womanly accoutrements necessary to amply accommodate any feminine finery. Dresses, heels, jewelry, slips, panties, and bras were now accepted as part of this body’s existence. Speaking with a woman’s voice helped me imagine myself to have been magically transformed into a REAL woman, which was not all that far from the truth. The presence of the family jewels and scepter pulled back between my legs were a constant reminder of my TRUE status, yet, that beautiful naked image in the mirror was extremely hard to refute. My identity problems were further complicated when I found that my ‘trainer’ had done its job almost too well. Even without it, my waist was now only three inches thicker than Angie’s previous femme dimensions, as indicated by the fact that even her favorite silver lame evening gown fit. And it was tight on her!

That’s when I finally knew. "We’re gonna pull it off, Ange," I declared with conviction, staring at the massive twin bulges of creamy flesh above the strapless silvery bodice of that delicious gown.

"You bet we will!" She had my voice down pat now.

Encouraged, I ventured a personal insight. "But my male identity has taken a real beating already, Babe. And we’ve got to get through tomorrow night before things can go back to normal, if that’s possible."

"Yea, I’ve been wrestling with that too, especially this clutter between my legs. They really get in the way!" She pulled at her ‘attributes’ pointedly. "Then I think about the cash and jobs at the end of it. We’ll manage, Dear, even afterwards. Besides, you needed to mellow that male chauvinism of yours anyway. Now you’ll see what we gals gotta put up with."

"Maybe..," I sneered. "And maybe your hyper-feminist attitude will experience a certain amount of alteration as well." Then I waxed a bit philosophic. "We’ll both probably come out of this experience with somewhat different perspectives. It’s inevitable anyway, since everyone knows that you rarely have any notion of what it’s like for another until you ‘walk a while in his or her shoes’."

She chuckled good-naturedly. "Could be. Could be."

The ‘clothes party’ was tiring work so we were ready for bed early (at least earlier than our usual Friday night sack time, which was invariably sometime well into Saturday morning). I had to wear the corset to bed again too, but Angie laced it firmly, not painfully extra-tight as before. Over it I wore & diaphanous pink nylon teddy and matching briefs. Ange wore my cotton BVDs and checked pajama bottoms, leaving her bare-chested. (She said, "It feels more in character this way.") Taking - completely by surprise, she cut the light and climbed in bed with me!

"Honey," she whispered in the dark, "let’s cuddle tonight, okay?" She liked cuddling almost as much as sex and always insisted on it afterwards. Only this time I got cuddled as her arm went under my head and pulled me into her shoulder. It was comfortable, my long tresses tickling my cheek as it nestled against his/her, my arm automatically flung across the firm flat chest. I sensed a mild undercurrent of sensuality, but it was muted and insubstantial. The position felt right, cozy and satisfying.

"Comfy?" he/she drawled.

"Ummm," I sighed, drifting off to sleep almost immediately.

 

The dream was extremely vivid. Angie and I were making passionate love when we both wondered aloud how it felt for the other. Suddenly, I lay beneath Angie’s firm body; his sandpaper chin pressed into mine as our lip met and tongues played tag. My plump breast was engulfed and kneaded by a large hand, while strong fingers tangled in my long thick hair.

My left arm stretched across the muscular back and raked long nails through short-cropped locks while my right hand slid along the firmness of his tight hairy buttocks and between us to check his readiness. His fully distended warmth lay near the juncture of my thighs where my free hand grasped it as hot wet lips moved downward and closed on a fat protruding nipple. The glowing warmth in my chest and between my legs took a quantum leap up the scale to "barely tolerable".

"Now," I moaned, guiding the thick probe, then...

I was being kissed! The real world shredded my delirious fantasy/dream. Oddly, it was like the dream as I felt the coarse chin when our warm lips met. Angie still tasted great! Then I made the mistake of opening my eyes as I felt her unfamiliar solidity. Never had I been involved in nor had I ever desired a gay experience, despite my tv-ism. My fantasies were always 'hetero', but with me as functionally female! Now, I was kissing a man, or was I? Hesitantly maintaining the contact, I wondered whether this ‘mans being Angie underneath made a difference. IT DID! She/he felt and tasted good! And isn’t what (or who) is inside that head and heart what counts?

"I love you," the bass whisper said as our lips parted.

There was a wet nibbling at my earlobe. The resultant shiver was warm pleasure, not chill discomfort.

"I love you too, Honey," I twittered softly into the closest ear.

The mouth moved slowly downward while a hand slid beneath the corset cup and pulled the top of my right breast into view. There was no tactile sensation as her/his lips engulfed the realistic latex nipple, but the satisfaction at giving pleasure to my lover was incredibly powerful. Imprisoned organs reacted to nature’s call, but the effort was wasted. Yet, I still felt a fulfillment in the giving, which encouraged and amplified the level of our passion.

We lay in a warm post-partum haze before I finally broke the heavy silence. "Today’s the day, Hon,’ I commented inanely, once again cradled into her/his chest.

"Yup, and there’s lots to do, as usual." She pulled free, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and crawled out of bed. First, we better straighten out our names and genders."

"Huh?" I tucked the comforter under my chin.

She stared at me like I was the dumbest log in the forest. "Look, Honey, this has got to go off without a hitch, right?"

I mumbled agreement.

"Ok, so you have to be Angela to perfection, walk, talk, act in every way exactly as I would. Me likewise. Right?"

Another girlish grunt and nod.

"Right.., and it also follows that we must answer appropriately to our names. So, as of now, my Dear, you are Angela and I am Jason. Okay, ...Angela?"

Blearily, I stared at her/his angular face for a moment before regaining a bit of my off-center sense of humor. "Uh.., I guess so, ...Jason, Dear." I smiled wanly.

"That’s the spirit, Ange!" By her wide toothy grin, I surmised my humor was on target this time. "Now, little wifey, Dear, how about some breakfast before we pick up where we left off last night." Now wearing only my Beds, 'he' rubbed 'his' hands enthusiastically and sauntered off toward the kitchen.

I followed more slowly since it took me longer to rearrange my own fake bulges, pull my sorely corseted body into position, and gingerly rise to my feet without bending at the waist and cutting myself in half. By the time I’d used the toilet and joined "him", the table was set and the eggs were almost done.

"Can I get out of this bloody torture chamber now?" I pleaded, grabbing my midriff for emphasis.

‘He’ calmly surveyed my frame top-to-bottom-to-top. "How about keeping it on until we get ready for the Party?" he suggested. "Last night your waist was still a bit bulgy. Besides, the extra time will work to your advantage later when you have to wear that dance hall costume. It’s form-fitted for my measurements, ya know.

I had to swallow to answer. "No, I don’t know. You said yourself last night that your clothes fit me pretty well. Isn’t that enough?" I responded irritably. "I was hoping my waist had been ‘trained’ enough to make do."

"NO, it’s not enough!" he countered harshly. I cringed almost instinctively, and the sight of my reaction softened the next words. "Honey, I’m not about to settle with ‘making do’ or ‘pretty well’. We have to be absolutely believable, and that means P-E-R-F-E-C-T, at least until just the right moment."

At this point all I wanted to do was have done with the whole matter, if I could just get through the coming evening without my male identity suffering irreparable damage. Unwilling Car unable) to argue further, I relented, hands up in protective mode. "Ok, Han, okay. But when’s that right moment gonna happen?"

"During the judging," Ange-as-me declared around a mouthful of sausage. "Sonya, or Nattie, or Irene, maybe all three, will be there to vouch for our disguises if need be, but we’ll have to pick the time and place very carefully for our little revelation."

My response was a defeated, "uh huh."

After cleaning away breakfast’s aftermath, we both acquired light at-home apparel. I found a plain pink-check cotton housedress, while ‘Jase’ nonchalantly pulled on Levi’s and my favorite NIKE muscle-shirt.

Returning to the project at hand, we practiced the voice drills until we did it right without thinking and without any detectable lapses, and kept it up for a while longer to double check. Our concentration was so profound that lunchtime arrived seemingly within minutes. Munching quickly prepared grilled cheeses, we continued a running dialogue of nonsense to "lock In" our intonations, while also rehearsing and critiquing body English.

Coaching and practicing our mannerisms allowed the next few hours to pass quickly. Walking almost continuously around the apartment in heels, I gradually acquired the knack of a natural feminine pointed-toe gait (it was easier with a pronounced hip swing motion), ignoring as best I could the painful objections my calves made to the unfamiliar angular strain on them. Meanwhile, my "partner in crime" took pointers toward developing my flatfooted saunter. I’d had three days to learn my role so a bit of fine-tuning was enough to perfect my impersonation of my luscious wife to ‘his’ satisfaction. She had just gotten into it, so to speak, and had much farther to go, but was more than equal to the task. By the time we had begun our ^final preparations for the Party, slated to start around seven o’clock, we were as close to being each other as we thought we’d ever get, including the names.

As we gradually fine-tuned our disguises, it became progressively easier to think of ourselves in terms of our roles. For all intents and purposes, at least in a superficial physical sense, I was Angela, and ‘he’ was Jason.

Hardly thinking now of the strangeness of the reversed names and pronouns, I noticed the tine. "Jason, Dear, we’ve got about two hours before magic time and it’s a half hour drive through city traffic."

He glanced at the clock too. "Oh dear! You’re right. I’ll lay out the costumes while you shower."

"..Huh? Must I remind you that a certain amount of nakedness is required for that procedure for which I am unable to prepare alone." I undid the front buttons of the simple housedress, stepped out of it, and stood there arms spread to expose the "iron maiden" of satin and steel that encased my body.

His embarrassment produced a lopsided grin. "Oh yea, sorry," he apologized as the laces were quickly unknotted and loosened, the hooks released.

Free at last! Vertical crease marks from hip to armpit showed where the steel stays had compressed flesh. And, yea, I took a bath again, with plenty of scented bubbles and oil. After all, I was supposed to be Angie now, wasn't I? But I used a shower cap for insurance since wet hair would be too much of a bother. I shaved my legs and underarms too. Thankfully, the patches of latex on my face were waterproof along with all the other "additions" with which I’d been decorated. Fortunately too, their presence also negated the need to scrape away whiskers too. There was, however, a sense of tense reluctance of my stomach and chest to relax, so their tenseness remained, even under the soothingly hot bath waters. It almost felt like the muscles were afraid to relax for fear of again being punished.

Ange-as-me was tugging faded rumpled denims about her waist when I returned. "No shower?" I asked, unable to avoid staring at the heap of lace and calico on the bed.

"Naw," he growled good-naturedly. "I don’t need to smell as good as you do, anyway."

I shrugged_, only half listening as I examined the pile of famine finery. I knew where and how it all went on, but ... "Are garters and lace-trimmed panties really necessary? I’d rather use pantyhose."

Jason was just shrugging into a long-sleeve plaid lumberjack shirt of heavy wool. "Real ism, my dear Angie. That’s the operative word, and don’t you forget it!" I fingered the frilly garters. "Well, get cracking’ I’ve gotta do your hair when you’ve dressed, and time’s a-wastin’ already."

I wondered idly if he knew a western drawl was creeping into his thick baritone. (Funny how those pronouns came so naturally when one only considered the image and not the reality beneath.)

"The garters and hose go on first, then the underwear. Makes it easier in the Ladies’ Room," he quipped at my questioning expression.

The dark nylons had a pronounced diamond pattern (fishnet?) and the flaming red garters were heavily trimmed in frilly black lace. Likewise the thickly ruffled panties. It must have been a late western era costume or the panties would have been bloomers instead (perish the thought!).

Jason stood hands on hips, watching as I pulled the first of three crisply starched crinoline petticoats up to my foreshortened waist where the elastic waistband snuggled firmly into place above shelf-like hips.

A note of exasperation broke my concentration. "Humphf! At this rate you’ll be all night," he smirked gleefully. Patience was never one of Angela’s more refined virtues, nor mine either until now.

"I’m doing okay," I objected, reaching for the second petticoat.

"Without my help you’ll be ready about midnight." He pulled the slip from my grasp. "Hands up," he instructed while probing through the crisp material for the waistband and raising the expanded opening toward my head.

"Am I under arrest?" I asked, noticing that he was apparently finished dressing already. Besides the faded denies and shirt, he’d donned high-rise cowboy boots that added at least three inches to his height. (I suspected there were additional lifts too since I now stared straight across at his chin.) A bright red bandana was tied at his throat and a silver Marshal’s star was pinned over the shirt’s left pocket. The wide tooled leather belt angled slightly toward the right hip where a leather holster contained a very realistic Colt-45 six-shooter.

"Just do it." His commanding tone was so much in character I obeyed without thinking. My reward was an indulgently soothing explanation. "The second petticoat can’t go up your legs over the first one. Ya gotta drop it over your head." It slipped over my arms then head and shoulders with soft crackling sounds then held at the voluminous bulges of "bare" flesh attached to my chest. (The corset had remained in the chair where I’d left it before my bath.) Pop, pop, the crinoline slid, into place. Likewise, the third mass of crinkling cloth reached its requisite location.

The ‘dance-hall’ gown was a fantastic kaleidoscope of red, white, and gold. Two huge red bows adorned each hip, and yards of gold ribbon draped in waving patterns from the tiny waist to the white satin bows lining the skirt’s full hem. A single large white bow was positioned exactly at the center of the heavily reinforced bodice, nestled between the cups.

Conscious of "Jason’s" critical observation, I fished through the full skirt and pulled it over my head, awestruck by the sensuous texture of the cool fabric. Since there was no bra or corselet in the pile, I assumed correctly that the gown was adequately equipped. Angie had intimated as much earlier. Despite careful observation and some practice, it was impossible for me to secure the multitude of small velvet-covered wooden buttons that fastened up the back. The angle was part of the problem, but my long crimson nails were a major hindrance. I just could not manage that fine an operation with them. Jason did up the fastenings from bottom (several inches below waistline) to top (at mid-back, about at the "bra-line"). Above the waist, except for the bosom, the gown’s material was heavily reinforced, reducing my girth even further than the "trainer" had accomplished. But, thanks to Angie’s insistence on the corset’s continuous use, my waist hardly protested at all to the additional pressure, seemingly taking the extra strain in stride. Thin shoulder straps connected the low back with a bodice cut so deep that acres of creamy bulging flesh was expertly revealed. From my angle I could even see the dark crescent tops of both areola since the cups were practically nonexistent, mostly just crisp lace trim. The stiff unyielding fabric pushed my creamy half-exposed breast flesh upwards into even more voluminous prominence. If I leaned over very far, I was sure they would pop right out! And it was an absolute certainty that I’d never again be able to easily see anything below my chest anytime soon.

Jason pulled me toward the vanity. "Do your face while I do your hair. And don’t forget to heap it on."

"I’ll just brush it out," I countered, ignoring the beauty advice. By now I had a pretty fair notion of what was required, I thought.

"Hardly. It’s gotta be western style," he insisted. For a minute I thought he was referring to my makeup.

I shrugged, sat down and reached for the cosmetics as Jason pulled a brush through my mussed hair. Only small patchy tugs at my scalp belied the artificial length of my lush new auburn tresses, a most interesting though sometimes painful sensation as several snarls were smoothed away. Liberal use of heated curlers f or short moments produced curlicue spirals that hung in a tight Southern-belle style until brushed into looser ringlets that fell over my shoulders. Small combs were set just above each ear to half-expose my pierced ears. Short bangs, brushed evenly, formed a dense curtain across my forehead just above my eyebrows.

Meanwhile, my efforts at producing an "overdone" saloon-girl face as suggested were hampered somewhat by the activity around it. Still, I managed admirably. Finally, we were checking the reflected results.

"Pretty good, Babe," Jason declared. "But you need a couple more items before you’re ready."

"Huh! What’s left?’

"Jewelry!" he stated evenly. "And a little something extra."

The studs in my ears were replaced with exquisite pendants of ruby-rhinestone clusters suspended from pure silver chains long enough that the sparkling babbles almost brushed my shoulders. To this was added a beautiful antique cameo set in a choker of midnight black velvet that wrapped snugly about my throat.

And lastly, he selected a tiny plastic box from the vanity’s clutter, opened it, tapped a fingertip to his tongue and poked it into the box. A small black dot appeared and with particular care was affixed to my left cheek. A beauty mark! These additions were truly as she’d said, that little something extra, adding immeasurably to the total effect of the costume.

"Looks like I’m as ready as I can be," my clear soprano observed with barely restrained excitement.

"Not quite yet."

"What now? …Ohhh..." I gaped at the precipitous height of the spike-heeled pumps being strapped to my feet. Studded liberally with ruby-red rhinestones, they sparkled with fiery brilliance in the vanity’s fluorescent glare, reminding me of stiletto versions of Dorothy’s magic slippers in Oz. They must reached four inches or more, and I feared my ankles would snap if I even tried to stand in them.

"I can’t walk in those!" I protested. "Besides, I don’t think they match my costume."

Undaunted, as usual, Jason countered, "They’ll be perfect, you’ll see. And you won’t have much trouble with them either, especially after practicing for three days." With sure-handed efficiency, the straps were adjusted and secured snugly.

I tested my balance without standing. "These things are so high I’ll get nose bleeds just standing in them. And probably get a broken ankle if I misstep. At the very least my calves and feet will be in agony within fifteen minutes."

He chuckled. "Then be careful, especially at first. Shorten your pace and point your toes. And sit down if you’re hurting. It’s not that tough. I do it all the time."

"Yea, right... that’s a lifetime of experience talking, remember. I’ve only had a few days, and never at this height. Besides, a woman’s legs and feet are more limber and flexible than a man’s"

He pointed at my nylon clad cams. "Young lady, those don’t look like a man’s legs to me. Now stop whining. You’ll adjust," he declared firmly, pulling me to my feet. "Walk around for a few minutes while I finish up."

Wearing nylons helped assuage the strain of walking practically on my tiptoes, and I soon discovered that the heels could take a considerable weight. Gradually, I found that the optimal system required me to point my toes like a ballerina so that heel and toe connected with the floor simultaneously. And since there was no side support provided by the sling design (just a platform with a strip behind heel and over instep), my ankles had to remain rigidly straight to avoid a painful twist, or break. At first, I moved with cautiously tiny steps over the rug and tile surfaces of the apartment until my feet acclimated (albeit reluctantly) and my gait became more assured and ‘normal’. However, the jiggling earthquake motion of this ‘normal ‘ gait threatened to burst my breasts completely free of their semi-adequate restraints. Ignoring this potential for disaster (not to mention the physical sensations it caused) was virtually impossible, but I had no other choice. Endurance was my only option!

I’d not been mincing about for long before Jason emerged from the bedroom. "Well, maw lil’ filly! Whatcha think?" The huge handlebar moustache that covered almost his whole mouth muffled the exaggerated bass accent only slightly. I could barely see lips under it, and the huge curl on either side looped in a half-arch back toward his nose. I was immediately reminded of a BigHorn ram, an old one.

"Perfect!" I said.

"You too, Darlin’," he drawled, flashing a toothy whiskered grin.

So, we were ready!

 

At the risk of understatement, the Party was lavish. My well-conditioned disguise almost broke down completely when I saw so many people there. Senators, mayors, studio bigwigs, movie and television stars, bigshots all, and lots of them. I was petrified! Angie had said this was an exclusive affair, but there must have been two hundred people. Also, despite the highly lauded costume prize, there were no more than two dozen western costumes in evidence. A quick check further revealed that few of those had put much preparation into their attire, leading me to conclude that our competition appeared somewhat less than enthusiastic. I whispered as much to Jason (watch the names and pronouns!) as we arrived on the broad veranda behind the Bel Air mansion of Mr. Murtelli, and approached the huge open-sided tent set up on the spacious lawn to protect the vast buffet and most of the crowd.

"Good," he responded. "All the better for us." Releasing my hand, which had a viselike lock on my escort’s elbow in a ‘ladylike’ manner, he promptly headed for the action (the bar). After only a few steps he turned and gave me a sidelong glance.

I was frozen in my pointy-toed tracks. Except for the butler who’d greeted us and collected our invitation, I had yet to face anyone as this bedecked female that I was pretending to impersonate. The moment of truth was at hand!

Returning to my side, Jason nudged me forward. Agitation all too evident through clenched teeth, he whispered, "Mingle, Angie, mingle. You’re a beautiful woman now, so use it. Be me." Out of character, he added, "I’m not a wallflower, ya know, so you’ve gotta play me convincingly. Come on, let’s He stopped, pointed a smile over my left shoulder, then waved. "Hi, Sonya. We’re here."

I shuddered slightly, then turned. Sonya wore a heavy black cotton dress that covered everything but her hands and head, hair pulled back and piled into a severely dull bun. "School Marm", I guessed silently while trying to gear myself up for the evening to come.

"Hi Sonya," I forced a pleasant greeting as she approached.

"You two look absolutely fabulous! You're a cinch to win," she gushed and winked knowingly.

"Thanks to you," my mate responded.

"Oh, you’re both such dears. But y_ou’ve done a lot for yourselves too, I see." She surveyed us approvingly. "Have you been here long?"

Jason offered, "No, just arrived."

"Oh. Well, the contest will be right after the screening, which will be in ... (she checked her pendant watch) ... in about ten minutes. Why don’t you two just head on over and claim a seat." Sonya aimed a finger at a cluster of folding chairs arranged before a large projection screen all beneath a second tent across the spacious manicured lawn.

With considerable relief, I accepted Jason’s arm, extremely grateful that I wouldn’t have to solo, at least not for some time yet.

Crossing the wide expanse of grass, we were accosted a few times by several people who knew one or both of us. We handled each situation very carefully, covering for each other’s blank spots, and did it most admirably, I thought, while also pointedly avoiding any exchange that might compromise our impersonations. Still, I was grateful for the shortness of the time until quiet was requested and the film was presented.

 

The movie was a dud, over long, rampant with gore and gratuitous violence, and badly edited too. Another "Heaven’s Gate"! But, at the end, everyone applauded dutifully and the more energetic ass kissers huddled around The Chief to pump his arm and feign enthusiasm.

Shortly, Mr. Murtelli stepped to the front and addressed the group. "Thank you, my friends, thank you. It’s an honor

I cringed as he went on at length, lauding the feature’s box office potential and encouraging our word-of -mouth support, essentially demanding the latter in his own subtle way, as if to say, "this is my pet project and I want you to make sure it succeeds". And, in fact, he and everyone else there knew that was exactly what he was saying, but by insinuation only, of course. He wasn’t brief about it either!

Finally winding down, he said, ".... So tonight let’s celebrate. Everybody gather at the buffet and I’ll judge the costumes...," he paused to survey the crowd, obviously distressed, "what few there are. Then the evening is yours to eat and drink and whatever. OH, and for those of you who care for that sort of thing, I’ve arranged for Lady Corinne to set up her little Reading Room in the garden." The crowd broke up, most following The Chief toward the buffet tent, with us near the rear of the pack.

But I wasn’t paying much attention. Lady Corinne ‘s presence was not welcome, to me at least. In fact, one of the few really serious arguments my sweet Angie and I ever had was over her. Ange had seen this supposed mystique perform and was totally enthralled by her from the very beginning, convinced beyond reason that this... this "Fortune Teller" was for real, could read palms and minds, predict futures, commune with spirits, and all the other mumbo jumbo her sort traffics in. Therein lay the rub! I did not and could not believe one iota of it. As far as I was concerned the old bat was just another con artist, a trickster, using her charismatic abilities along with a judicious application of well-hidden technology to pilfer megabucks from her "disciples". For over a year I had resisted Angie’s persistent urgings that I meet this storefront gypsy and judge her in person. My defense being that ‘I don’t have to drink poison to know that it’s unhealthy’.

Now, however, trying to convince everyone that I was Angie, I was really stuck! Her admiration and fervent discipleship was common knowledge among her fellow workers and friends, and that fact now exploded upon me.

To make matters worse (impossible though it seemed), Angie’s closest friend, Doris Allen, appeared at my elbow. "Hi, guys," she twittered.

We continued toward the food tent as I swallowed hard to return my heart to its proper place and prepared for Doris’ penetration of our disguises. This was the acid test!

Attempting a springy girlish tempo, I responded. Hi, Doris. I didn’t know you were gonna be here."

 

"Yea, well, I been dyin’ for an invite, as you know, but couldn’t wangle a date until late today. You know me, Ange. If nothing else, I’m persistent." She glanced sideways at ‘Jason’.

I’d have conceded that fact even if I weren’t posing as her best friend, understanding all too well the double meaning she’d intended. She had put a heavy and persistent move on me some weeks before which I’d had a terrible time fending off. The only thing that saved me from sampling Doris’ delicious charms had been, in at least two instances, was Angie’s imminent arrival home from work. Since then I’d made a point of avoiding any isolated moments with my wife’s nympho friend that prove too ..uh, well, too ... compromising. How she’d avoided AIDS so far I’ll never know, as active and ‘experimental’ as is her nature.

Doris grinned gleefully. "Say! When are you going over to see the Lady, huh?" My only soft spot for Doris lies in our mutual dislike for the character in question.

Jason was watching intently, doing his best to avoid the exchange while appearing disdainful of the subject matter, just as I would have done.

Now came my triumph or failure. We’d entered the tent area when I gushed enthusiastically, "We’ll see Her right after the contest, I imagine. It’s so wonderful that she’s here. Now Jason has to meet her, right Dear? You can’t very well avoid her this time." My bared teeth were a grin to Doris, a grimace to Jason, at least I hoped so.

He frowned in mock anger, then shrugged. "Can’t dodge her forever, I guess. But I can still put it off. Let’s join the others in line." He pointed to the small queue of costumed attendees forming near the buffet tables.

Mr. Murtelli was the judge, of course. A heavy-set man, average height, square jaw, he carried about him an indisputable air of authority. Like most highly placed men (and women), his dynamic personality and confident leadership kept him well established in an industry dominated by eccentric egomaniacs. What set him apart was his intensely indulged sense of humor, which had evolved into a preoccupation with practical jokes. It was rumored that he was the one who had Burt Reynolds’ brand new Mercedes filled with concrete during shooting on the Back Lot several years back. The Chief replaced the car later, of course, and no one ever heard whether Burt got even, but it was common knowledge that Burt never worked for our studio again. The general inference being that Murtelli enjoyed the "dishing out" but never being the "receivee".

Now, Angie and I were about to do just that, to a certain degree. But first we had to win!

 

Eventually, the elimination process left just four of us; Me-as-Ange, Ange-as-me, Sonya (that’ll show just how uninspiring the participants were), and a guy who’d come as a John Wayne version of Rooster Cogburn, but fatter and shorter. Sonya introduced him as her husband, Irwin. Naturally, I was biased, but the choice seemed obvious: I was lots more appealing than Sonya, although she had the advantage of possessing her curves naturally while I had to work at it, and the same with ‘Jason’ and the Cogburn character. Yet, Murtelli couldn’t seem to decide, stroking his chin thoughtfully as we strutted about on the grass.

Physically exposed as I was before that crowd, I felt like a goldfish in a tank of piranha as The Chief had the four of us parade around in a tight circle to see how well we kept ‘in character’. My balance was precarious as my spike heels sank into the sod and my toes protested vigorously. Belatedly, the thought crossed my mind that our ongoing play-acting may be an excuse for Murtelli to ogle (which he was doing with relish) the very exposed fleshy mountains on my chest making every effort to burst their bonds.

‘Jason’ swaggered over to The Chief and his induced baritone could be heard clearly by all. ‘It appears," he observed, "that our Leader is having trouble with his decision." A low murmur of tentative agreement could be sensed more than heard from among the onlookers.

"Here it comes," my nerves screamed. I froze, staring at the crowd, then at Jason, and finally focusing on The Chief’s face as my driven spouse proceeded to light the fuse and blow everything to kingdom come.

"Am I correct, Sir?’ the bogus Jason asked with gusto.

Mr. Murtelli eyed him somewhat suspiciously. "The prize offered is not insignificant, and the winners must be worthy of it. I gauge my decision on that basis. Thus I take my responsibility in this matter very seriously in order that the recipients be deserving.., ...Mr. Delaney, isn’t it?" He didn’t wait for a response. "Alt., yes, of course, the Lab. Well, Mr. Delaney, if you are trying to influence my choice with bravado, beware."

"Oh!" ‘Jason’ responded. "I’m honored that you know my name, Sir. And your warning is noted and heeded, although unnecessary." Indicating his costume with a sweep of his hands, he added, "Bravado is in the nature of my character, but that is not a factor here. You say that your decision will be based essentially on merit, Sir, Is that not correct?"

Irritated but curious, Murtelli answered, "Yes, but I will not look kindly upon one who seeks to influence me or interfere with due process." He glared at the Jason personage before him. There was a definite gleam there, though, as he glanced in my direction before returning to the conversation. "Especially since you have a stake in my choice."

"Obviously," Jason agreed. "Nevertheless I do admittedly seek to influence your choice, Sir. In fact, my spouse and I wish to present ourselves as the most deserving winners of your substantial prize." He gestured me to his side.

Maintaining his cool until now, The Boss exploded. "Why.., you impertinent bastard! What the HELL makes you think you’re more damned deserving than your competition?’ He pointed toward the unimpressive duo of Sonya and her ‘Cogburn’ escort, then his livid rage turned on us. "Mr. Delaney, your very impertinence has sealed your doom! I hereby declare....!"

"Wait!’ 'Jason's' bellow cut him off. Before Murtelli could continue, he said, in a softly conciliatory manner, "Mr. Murtelli, it’s said that you possess a well-heeled sense of humor, and that on occasion you often indulge in and enjoy a practical joke. Is that true?"

I’ve never seen livid anger evaporate so quickly. Murtelli was stunned by the question, and then a strangely wicked expression crossed his face. Apparently, even the potential of a prank gave him pause to consider, especially if it was on him, as I’m sure he now surmised from ‘Jason’s’ question.

"...uh...mmm...yes, I’ve been known to enjoy a trick or two." It was hard to ignore the general twitter of smirks from the crowd. "What’s your point, Mr. Delaney?"

If anyone would have cared to take a course in "Smug Expressions", my spouse could have been a perfect instructor at that moment. Steeling myself for the onslaught that the ignition of our little "time bomb" would cause, I listened, staring into The Chief’s eyes. I’d have given anything for a camera to record his expression during the next moments.

‘Jason’ said, "I realize, Sir, that many people who enjoy engineering practical jokes rarely appreciate being the objects of such activity," he rushed on, stroking the Ego he addressed. "However, we took the chance that, in this case, you would enjoy our little trick-or-treat game. Right, Sonya?"

She nodded and flashed a grin at Murtelli.

"What’s she got to do with....?" Cutting off the question, The Chief asked her, "You’re on the Special Team, right?"

Nod.

His eyes lit up a bit, the previous anger dissolving as his joker’s mind was obviously trying to deduce the nature of the BOOM before it was lowered. "Then I presume you helped Delaney and his wife with their costumes?"

Only another smiling nod.

He turned to Jason once more. "So you got some help at the studio. So what? Your conduct, Mr. Delaney…."

Ange-as-me interrupted him again. "...was necessary, SIR, because we deserve that prize of yours. We earned it!"

"HA!" was his derisive reply. "And how, pray tell, did you earn such a substantial reward? By mooching off our studio’s resources?" Jason was obviously about to explode our little surprise all over the room when Mr. Murtelli turned to me. "Angela, my dear, what sort of game is your husband playing?"

Momentarily, I wondered at his knowing Angie’s name, but lost the thought instantly when Jason turned and handed me the ‘match’. "Tell ‘im, honey." S/he grinned broadly and nodded encouragement.

Glancing toward the heavens for strength, I batted long dark lashes and stepped forward, promptly creating a little "chesty quake" which Murtelli and others had been all too willing to appreciate.

With his gaze momentarily diverted by my bogus assets, I gulped air and called up the most Marilyn Monroe-like breathy soprano I could muster, pointed a long lacquered nail at his nose, then at ‘Jason’, and myself in turn, and lit the fuse. "Sir, you will kindly refer to my wife and myself by our proper names, please. It would be most appreciated."

There was a sudden and total silence for at least five heartbeats as the fuse burned down. Then the explosion of comprehension was followed by a few giggles and 'what the..'s as the realization of what I’d just revealed hit almost everyone at once. Then there was instant pandemonium, with most reactions being of the predictable variety: awe, surprise, shock, and disbelief.

Nearby, Doris spastically gasped, ^MNNNNoooo.., nnno000.., ....eeeeoooo...!"

The Chief patiently allowed the tumult to run its course for all of five minutes, while calmly examining every millimeter of our disguises (with special emphasis on my bosom). His expression was almost neutral, although the hooded eyes studied us in minute detail

With a final decisive nod, he gestured for silence. "OK, folks, let’s calm down for a moment, shall we? ...Thank you. I still have an important decision to make." This last aimed at us. Then he turned again to Sonya, indicating us expansively. "You did this?" he accused somewhat gruffly.

Her response revealed the pride she took in her work. "Sure did! Pretty good, huh?" she replied with a smug grin while approaching and planting a firm kiss on The Chief’s-flushed cheek. "Goth, Pop!"

It was our turn to be flabbergasted!

"His daughter?" I asked inanely, realizing that he’d delayed his choice because his own daughter was one of the ‘finalists’.

Her confirming nod was accompanied by a broad grin. "Yup, that’s lit’l ol’ me. I’ve been racking my brain for months trying to set up Dad for a good fall. But I didn’t want it to hurt." She hugged ‘Daddy’ lovingly. "So, when Angie asked for my help, well, I just jumped at the plan. It was ideal No one hurt, no bruised egos, and no recriminations. Right, Dad?"

"...uh, yea, sure.." he muttered. Murtelli couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off my cleavage. To Ange-as-Jason and me, he said, "I insisted on the prize going to the most deserving couple. Well, you’re right, you do deserve it. It’s yours! Congratulations, ..and no hard feelings either."

"Wow! Do you ever deserve it!" Shaking his head in resignation (or was it disbelief?), he glanced at my bosom once more. Aside to Sonya, he whispered, ‘The voices too?"

"Great, huh?"

"Incredible," he breathed.

A low rumble of approval came from the crowd, but reaction was hesitant until The Chief added his applause to the growing din. As we took our bows (I curtsied girlishly), I realized that the building ovation was a tribute to our disguises even more than to the fact that we’d won the Five Grand plus guaranteed employment.

Now came the time I’d dreaded most. However convincing a woman I appeared to be, I was, by definition, "in drag". And I was in public, standing before a group of over two hundred fellow workers and strangers who now knew my true identity. The impersonation, the ACT, was cancelled! I was now Jason Delaney, a guy who had allowed himself to be transformed beyond any possible recognition into a buxom twin of his wife. I was ME again, or rather, I had to be Jason again, not Angie.

 

As it turned out, my concern over being derided or scorned or laughed at by coworkers, friends, and strangers alike was unfounded. Incredibly, and to my great relief, the only uncomfortable part was trying to convince Doris that my ample jugs were fake, that I was REALLY the male person named Jason whom she’d pursued so vigorously. Her persistent questioning of the idea that I had willingly volunteered to do all this indicated her rapidly declining opinion regarding my manhood, but I ignored her growing disdain. She was a pest anyway. I even wondered about the genuineness of her friendship with Ange, even acre so now than after fending off her deliberate play for me. Whatever her desires toward me, they were visibly decreasing with considerable speed as the evening progressed toward midnight. If this adventure accomplished nothing else, I thought, her coolness was reward enough.

At Sonya’s whispered insistence, Angela and I volunteered as little as possible about the means used to accomplish our exquisite facades, allowing only that Sonya’s Special Projects Division should draw most of the credit. Interestingly, our altered voices received the greatest number of comments, but we honored Sonya’s wishes and politely played ignorant, referring all questioners to her. Before too long I noticed that not a few men and women were giving me surreptitious sidelong glances, sometimes even outright staring, evidently either intimidated or chagrined by my appearance. (Was that envy I saw in that waiter’s stare? Or lust!?) At first, these adverse reactions were disturbing, but the number of compliments we both were receiving vastly outnumbered the negative aspects.

Gradually, I began to take pride in our accomplishment, and started enjoying the plaudits and interested conversations, often enjoying the way people reacted to my presence now that all knew who I really was. Generally the men, discomfited by my pseudo-female appearance, quickly drifted away, leaving the women to tolerate my approach.

It didn’t take me long to learn that high-heels might look great, but they definitely weren’t made for comfortable walking, or even standing, much less long stretches on the dance floor. Well, at least not when they’re on my feet. My discomfort was eventually noticed by a very pleasant middle-aged lady who offered a politely concerned invitation to sit and talk with her over a plate of delicious food from the buffet. My feet were ever so grateful when 1 accepted. Between bites, I told her what I did at the studio, she revealed her passion for photography, and it turned out to be a most pleasant and relaxing conversation. Not to mention the extreme gratitude expressed by my feet, legs, and ankles for the chance to recover from their recent strenuous activity.

 

We were discussing my work in the Lab when Ange-as-me approached and I realized I’d neither seen nor thought of her for several minutes.

‘Come on, Honey, we have a date," the still-basso voice droned evenly.

"Huh?"

"You promised you’d take me to meet Lady Corinne." The grin was decidedly self-satisfied, devious even.

"I did not!" I insisted, then recalled my earlier incognito exchange with Doris. Oh no! I pleaded girlishly, "..aaah, come on, Hon, please? That doesn’t count! I was playing you. You can’t hold me to it."

She (readjustment of pronouns now that we need no longer play-act), grabbed my painted digits firmly and pulled me from the chair. "You said, and I quote, ‘Jason has to see her now. You can’t avoid it’."

"Trust you to make me eat my words," I retorted, "especially when that ol’ Battle Axe is concerned."

A finger waggled before my nose. "Now, you be nice and ladylike, ya hear. Don’t embarrass me!"

I didn’t answer as we passed beneath an ivy-covered arbor of ornately crafted ironwork, which allowed access through the tall hedge that enclosed the large ornamental garden. Then I was busy negotiating the gravel path, desperately trying to place each heel properly to avoid a broken ankle. My senses reeled as breasts giggled fluidly, starched crinoline crackled softly against my thighs, heavy pendant earrings tapped at my neck and pulled at my tender recently-pierced lobes, soft wavelets brushed my neck and shoulders. In combination with the heavy fragrances of grass, trees, bushes, and flowers, it was a heady mixture.

The gazebo at the path’s end was draped completely in a black cloth that was covered with Astral runes and symbols, the door flap hanging open. A faint odor of incense drifted toward us on the light breeze as we approached. While I wondered at Murtelli’s reason for ruining the western theme of his Party by inviting a pseudo-gypsy, she appeared in the dark entryway.

 

For some time now I had avoided Lady Corinne’s presence, but had been curious enough to have seen pictures of her. Yet, I was nonetheless surprised by her physical presence. Lady Corinne was a powerful (even if fake) force, just as much so in her own way as Murtelli was in his. Maybe more, since her personal following was probably the larger. I never questioned her leadership ability, or her charismatic appeal, only her authenticity! I had long since grudgingly acknowledged her abilities, but now her obviously diminutive (dare I say minuscule?) form beneath the voluminous black robe and hood gave me reason to doubt even what I’d conceded. (The song "Short People" came to mind instantly.) Granted, you shouldn’t "judge a book by its cover", but I was adamant enough about my well-nurtured prejudice toward her to grasp for anything that would discourage Angela’s further involvement with her.

 

Lady Corinne was barely five feet tall! Beneath the cowl was a pale, wrinkled, yet ageless face. The billowing robe obscured further details of her frame, but she was not fat. Not even her feet could be seen, only her face and a few thin wisps of white hair which poked from within the hood.

"Lady," Angela greeted, bowing her (my?) head with solemn formality. "May I present my husband, Jason Delaney." Then to me, "Honey, this is The Lady Corinne."

Totally ignoring the disparity of our appearance, the ‘Lady" only barely acknowledged me with a slight gesture of her hand.

Forcing a weak grimace/smile, I returned silence for silence.

"My Dear Angela, you’re not exactly the prettiest woman here tonight." Her reedy voice addressed my wife, making a small but weak (to me) effort at light humor.

Angie laughed heartily. "No, Lady Corinne, but Jason might be." My elbow in her ribs only fired her mirth. "Nay we have a reading, Lady?" she added between chuckles.

A small quirk at one corner of wrinkled lips was her- only response to Angie’s own attempt at levity. You are welcome to a Reading at any time, my dear Angela. You know that very well. However, do you wish for your husband to participate also? And does he wish to do so? I’ve been given to understand that he has certain . .uh.. reservations about such things."

For the first time Her eyes turned and met mine. They were deep set in shadow beneath pale brows. I was immediately struck by their color, Pink!

On occasion I’ve been accused of not always being real quick on the uptake, mostly by Angela, so it took me at least two microseconds to add together the pale ghostly complexion and extraordinary pink iris’s and come up with ... Albino!’ The pictures I’d seen must have been touched up, since they always showed her as rather matronly and unassuming. Ha! Whatever this woman standing before me might be, gypsy, fortune teller, witch, or con artist extraordinaire, she was not what her pictures tried to make her into. This Lady was hard, maybe callous, and certainly tough. And all this just from eye contact!

Our eyes were locked for a few seconds until I finally addressed her for the first time. "If you know my wife so well, you also know what I think of you and your well-designed theatrics. You bet I have reservations!" My soprano voice carried none of the weight I’d intended but the point was made, I hoped.

Her self-assured (arrogant?) smile of perfect white teeth was aggravating until I realized she was taunting me. I know you very well indeed, Mr. Delaney, certainly more intimately than you could ever imagine. If you dare, you may enter and thereby gain some small understanding of how misguided are your doubts." Before I could compose an appropriate response she had whirled about with a billow of black cloak and disappeared into the gloom of the draped gazebo, obviously intending us to follow.

"This is idiotic, Angie. Let’s go home." I turned to leave.

A firm grip caught my retreating arm. "You said yourself that this could not be avoided any longer. Besides, you’re embarrassing me to death!" Through clenched teeth she added, "Now let’s go in and you can sit through a simple Reading. Nothing to it..., and it’ll only cost you a few minutes of your precious time. Afterward, I’ll gladly go home with you and we can strip off these suffocating costumes and disguises. Okay?"

The ‘carrot dangling’ promise of recovering my maleness was irresistible. "Well, very well. But remember, I do this under duress."

Angie’s sudden smile turned into laughter, her eyes wavering over my bulging figure. "Yea, hehehe.., you’re doin’ it under a dress ...for sure!"

Chagrined at my ‘Freudien slip’ (damn..did it again!), I insisted, "...and no charlatan tricks are gonna convince me that gypsy is genuine either!"

"Quiet down! She’ll her you!"

"What sort of quackery can she pull with a stupid palm reading anyway?" I shrilled more loudly.

With only the greatest luck was I able to stagger along and avoid either severely turning an ankle or simply falling flat on my face as Angie destroyed my already precarious balance (ultra-high heels on gravel) with a stiff tug at my arm. By the time I recovered we had negotiated the two broad wooden steps and entered the gloom of the "tent" beyond.

 

From the outside, the circular gazebo had looked quite large, even in the semi-adequate light from several widely placed antique gaslights along the garden path. However, the interior formed by the black drapes allowed hardly enough space for a little table and three wicker chairs, one of which Lady Corinne occupied.

The small oval table was covered with an unadorned black cloth that fell almost to the floor, ending in long black tassels. On it sat a small stand upon rested a crystal-clear globe of glass that was only slightly smaller that soccer ball. Behind and flanking the seated Gypsy Woman were two six-foot candlesticks, each holding a single huge candle that guttered yellow-orange flame.

"Not exactly the most original decor," I observed half aloud in Angie’s direction.

The Gypsy almost certainly overheard, though her expression remained stoic as we occupied the two remaining seats. With Angie at my left, I placed my padded buns on the hard wooden chair, my spine board-straight to avoid undue strain on my midsection from the reinforced fabric encasing it. I was extremely conscious of the image I presented to Corinne’s hooded stare. Whereas, before she’d hardly acknowledged me, now the level emotionless stare and glances toward my ersatz endowments reminded me of the looks I got from men at the Party earlier, both before and after they knew my true gender. Despite my best efforts, the sense that those albino eyes were penetrating to my very soul made me twitch slightly on the hard seat. A trail of perspiration tracked its way down the crease of my spine.

The heavy stillness stretched into minutes as a test of wills seemed to develop, me trying to achieve and maintain a glare of mute animosity, while She succeeded all too well at making me self-conscious about my feminine guise under her steady stare. Or maybe she was just mad about my comment concerning her decorator’s talents? Whatever our separate thoughts may have been, the only absolute was our mutual dislike for each other.

Perhaps five long minutes of stony silence elapsed before Angie’s warm fingers sought out and clasped my clammy hands. Her deep male tone sliced through the tension. "May we have the Reading now, please, M’Lady?" she asked with a reverently whispered appellation not heard since King Arthur’s day. Her twitching excitement revealed an eagerness for this ‘reading", sure sign of a true believer. She seemed totally oblivious to the tension between her Guru and her beboobed hubby.

With a burst of sudden insight, I realized that the flames of my hatred for Corinne were fanned by my jealousy of Angela’s devotion to her, a mach deeper commitment than I had ever been able to enjoy from her.

Although my doubts as to Corinne’s genuineness were no less grave, my sudden understanding of at least part of what fanned the heat of my prejudice had me truly embarrassed. Angie probably interpreted my sudden blush beneath the rouge as anger, which it partly was, but aimed at myself as much as at Corinne, ....and at Angie too, I realized!

Wanting only to expedite matters so we could leave the pressing closeness of the ‘room’ and the now overpowering odor of incense, I said, "Yeah, so let’s get this charade over with. Is this a palm reading, or what?" My tight-lipped tone was designed to irk her, hopefully abbreviating our meeting by doing so.

It had no apparent effect as she grinned lopsidedly toward Ann. Giving the impression that she’d just returned from a great distance, her voice was soft and hollow. "Yes, that is our purpose here, isn’t it? Yes indeed."

She stared fixedly at the glass ball for a few seconds, during which I sighed loudly to express my impatience. Crystal Ball indeed!! How camp could you get! I half expected mist to roil up within the glass while Corinne’s caressed it with her gnarled wrinkled fingers and droned the "Aahh.., I see…" bit.

Instead, she picked up the ball and stand with smooth manicured hands that could have belonged to a woman less than half her age. ‘We’ll dispense with this." With exaggerated care, she placed the Ball and stand on the floor behind her seat, then spread both hands on the table before her, palms up.

"Your hands, please?" she requested of us both.

Angie had anticipated the request, after all it was a Reading and I figured she knew well enough what was expected of us, if anything. But my fingers with their long manicured nails were still folded in my lap. I wanted to leave, and didn’t want to submit to these farcical theatrics. Unfortunately, I had to do the latter to achieve the former. Getting expectant looks from both women, I waited a few seconds before matching Angie’s example, my hands joined hers on the table, palms up, but as far from Corinne’s as possible.

It didn’t matter. She didn’t touch us. At least not yet.

Her concentrated stare at our upturned palms lasted several minutes. Slowly, a broad grin curled her lips and those strange penetrating eyes again searched our faces.

"I see that you both have certain deep-seated desires which you hide within yourselves, but you also nurture them with great can." Her expression and tone caused a chill to course down my spine.

Desires? Sure, mine was obvious, but only to me since I’d never shared it with anyone else, Key, my current costume/disguise was my ultimate fantasy come true, right? But what was Angie’s? I wondered, watching her ruddy pseudo-maleness turn suddenly ashen, the blood drained from her bewhiskered face. Did Corinne really ‘read’ us both so deeply? (Assuming that Angie actually had something to hide.) Or was Corinne just being theatrical? After all, almost everyone has some secrets they never tell, not even to a priest or spouse.

I was about to make another comment about her ‘talents’ when Corinne suddenly grabbed both my hands. Words of protest stuck in my throat. Her hands were unpleasantly warm, as though she had a high fever. Deftly, she arranged our hands in a pile at the table’s center: her right on the bottom, then Angie’s right and mine, all palm up; followed by Angie’s, my, and Her left, all palm down. I was too busy observing to object, hoping desperately to discover what, if any, fakery was present. Figuratively and somewhat literally, she had a captive audience.

Corinne s smile was even broader now, but tight, strained, impatient as she addressed me. "Mr. Delaney, I have endured your caustic and uninformed insults via your wife for quite some time now. You are wrong, you know. Dead wrong!" My sputtering snicker earned me an arched eyebrow, and that smile stretched into a rictus grin. ‘Very well, sir. Since you continue your derision…."

Her strange eyes slowly closed, her face went suddenly slack and her head bowed. A moment later, I noticed that her hand covering mine at the top of our little pyramid was becoming noticeably warmer, its temperature rising by the second until the heat was so uncomfortable Z tried to extract my fingers. I was stuck despite her feather-light touch! I couldn’t budge my hand, almost like we were clued together. My resolve faded for an instant. How the hell could such a tiny woman maintain such a grip without any apparent effort? And how did she heat her hand? I was certain that it had to be some sort of trick. It just simply had to! There was nothing under the table when I kicked a high-heel around beneath it, catching Angie's shin and getting an annoyed glance in the process. Eagerly, I searched for any clues, but my hands were captive and the candlelight made eyesight inadequate at best. ...Ah, of course! I thought. She had something hidden that would be easily spotted in decent light. My resolve strengthened. I’d figure out a way to get back here tomorrow and check the place out in the daylight.

Meanwhile, I could only watch closely and be patient, hard as that was to do at the moment since my hand felt like it was being slowly roasted. Beads of perspiration on Angie’s forehead and her uneasy squirming showed that she felt likewise. Apparently, her discomfort was not eased by her fervor.

After a short pause, Lady Corinne’s head came up slowly, and her glazed pink-white eyes stared at our stacked hands. The heat subsided suddenly. "Jason.. Angela.." She glanced at us in turn. "In all my dealings with humanity, never have I read such unfulfilled yearnings, such unquenched desire in anyone, and certainly never in two persons so intertwined, so closely bound both physically and psychically as yourselves."

She spoke to Angela affectionately. "My Dear, you have seen for yourself that my talents are a force for good in an otherwise evil world." (Ange nodded eagerly as only a true believer could.) "..but I’ll also be the first to admit, for your husband’s benefit, that I am a show-woman. I love theatrics, and freely admit their use on occasion, this tent being a perfect example of the trappings I assume in the course of my work." She turned to me, her eyes glowing like pale embers, and the passion of fanaticism in her words. "However, Mr. Delaney, I am no storefront reader of tea leaves. My abilities are real, very real. What they are specifically and their source, ...well, you will never know. Yet, it is obvious from what I read in you both that can be of some service."

Straightening noticeably but maintaining the pyramid, she said, "Rarely have I used the full potential of my GIFT. But you two now offer me a challenge that I cannot and dare not resist. Angela, my Sweet, your unwavering faith has earned you a gift of great value. Jason, your blind skepticism has earned you a sign by which you shall know as certainly as does Angela that my power is real, not a contrivance of a crazed ego."

Raising her eyes upward, she continued loudly, as if in supplication to someone (or some thing) far overhead. "Rasha.., I call upon thee! Set upon me the boon I seek. Herewith and hereafter, bestow upon these, thy children, that which their deepest wish might be."

Good grief, I grumbled silently. How corny can you get? Then it got cornier. The candle flames fluttered and my abundant flow of hair stirred in a nonexistent draft.

Lady Corinne’s eyes returned to us as she declared almost inaudibly as if suddenly exhausted. "My Beloved. It is done!" With a rasping whisper, she mysteriously added, "Look to the witching hour for your fulfillment." Her head slumped until her cowled head rested on the table and she was still.

 

Abruptly, our hands were free. Yanking mine as if from a flame (it was almost that hot), I grabbed Angie’s warm hand as we both stood. She was oddly reticent.

Let’s get outta this loony bin!" I urged.

Ange’s concerned gaze was focused on Lady Corinne as she hesitated. "That’s the strangest reading I’ve ever seen. I hope she’s okay."

I pulled at her hand again. "She’s fine, Honey. Now, let’s go!"

With a flurry of petticoats and clomp of cowboy boots, I ushered Angela from the gloomy tent and down the path, hearing the distant rumble of an approaching storm as we crunched along the gravel trail. Then I noticed Angie’s reluctant progress.

Well, maybe humor would get her going. "Darn!" I cursed at the sky in as girlish a manner as I could muster and stamped my foot with mock petulance. "Now it’s gonna rain and mess up my pretty hairdo, to say nothing of our costumes and the Party. Oh p00!"

It worked. Angie grinned, but then looked back toward the dark tent. "What did she mean by a gift and a sign, Jase?" she puzzled.

"Ha! How should I know? You’re the believer, you tell me," I answered as we moved too slowly toward the garden’s edge. "But explain it to me on the way home." Her sluggish pace was unnerving. Yet, why was I so anxious to leave? Checking the man’s watch Ange wore, the digits showed that it wasn’t quite twelve o’clock.

Trying to urge Angela along, I trilled, "Honey, come on! Let’s get home and out of these disguises, pppllllleeeezzzz. I don’t want tits anymore!"

Now I knew I’d finally broken through when she laughed heartily. "Hahaha.. Yea, I guess they are a bit of a burden, aren’t they?’ A clipped finger poked playfully at one of my fleshy hillocks, hard enough for me to really feel it. "But you get used to them."

Finally, we were making hurried progress toward the trellis-tunnel in the hedge and the Party beyond. There was a distant flash, followed by a low rumble.

"I don’t wanna get used to them," I retorted. "You said we could go home tonight and take everything off, and I’m holding you to your promise. I’m afraid that if we wait much longer this stuff will never come off. Then we’ll BOTH be in a real pickle of a fix!"

Angela’s voice was low and hesitant. "But we can’t fix our voices."

I stopped dead in my tracks, almost twisting an ankle on precarious heels. "Huh! oh, .jeez... I HAD gotten used to THAT! Can Sonya fix it, I hope?"

"Well, said they could undo everything they did, and that was definitely part of what they did." Unfortunately, Ange didn’t seem all that thoroughly convinced, but I let it slide. Better that we take that as it comes. First, we had to get home.

Hand in hand, we approached the vine-covered trellis that framed the garden’s only entrance/exit. Just as we entered the richly aromatic shadow beneath the crosshatched metal latticework, I remembered something Lady Corinne had said.

Halting once more, this time within the romantic fragrance of the ornate tunnel, I asked Angie, "What was that Corinne said about the witching hour?" Together we checked her watch, and said in unison, "NOW?"

 

What happened next we found out about only later from witnesses.

For us, there was a blinding flash, followed by total unconscious blackness.

A huge bolt of lighting had struck and engulfed the ironwork trellis around us. Fortunately, the intricate crosshatched design diffused the deadly megavolt power. Still, for a split second we were caught in a spiderweb pattern of arching energy before the tremendously powerful blue-white voltage dissipated, rendering us both unconscious in its wake. Yet we showed no outward ill effects from the jolt, not even the proverbial smoking clothing.

From a great distance I heard The Chief mixing pronouns. "Is she... he ..a..alive, Doc?"

Cool fingers grasped my limp wrist as a gravelly voice said, "Yea, he’s coming ‘round. They both cot zapped pretty hard, but neither seems the worse for it, even though they were both clinically dead for at least ten minutes. How or why they revived I’ll never know, but they did!"

My eyes fluttered open to the fuzzy reddish image of Doc Wagner, the studio ‘bones’, leaning over me. I was lying on a padded lawn chair near the open-sided buffet tent. Ange-as-me lay nearby.

"It’s alright, Jason," Doc greeted, patting my crimson-tipped fingers in what he probably thought was a reassuring gesture. "You’ll be okay. You and Angela took a nasty dose of nature’s power, so you might feel a bit weak and disoriented. That’ll pass if you take it easy for a spell. Just relax and rest here for a while." Somehow my fuzzy vision made my hands appear more slender, softer.

"Hey Doc?" The Chief asked while leaning over Doc's shoulder and once again ogling my chest. "Shouldn’t you take them in to the hospital or something?"

Doc turned away and faced Murtelli. "Naw, I don’t think so. They seem to be recovering quite nicely. Let ‘em stay where they are and rest for a few minutes, then get someone to drive them home. After that shock, they should probably take a few days of R&R. But I want to see them about midweek to make sure no lasting damage was done." Rumor had it that ‘Doc’ was only just barely competent, and avoided hospitals and REAL doctors religiously. But he was also one of Murtelli oldest and closest friends, and that was all the credential he needed in his present job. Needless to say, I was less than pleased at being his patient, but in this, as in so many other things lately, I had little choice.

"01< Doc, you got it," The Boss agreed. He turned to the small crowd gathered loosely around us. "They’re okay now, folks. Just a bit groggy. Let’s go about having a good time and give them a rest." Aside, he gestured to the butler. "Andrew, see that the Delaney’s are driven home when they’re up to it." Then he too was off to do his hosting duties.

We were left alone.

 

When I tried to sit up an overpowering dizziness gripped me and nausea welled up. I lay back down QUICKLY as a confusion of sensations flitted at the edges of perception, almost drowned by the noxious queasiness and vertigo. The pressure on my midsection and crotch was noticeably reduced, but I still wore the tight saloon-girl costume. My hips were too heavy, more so than before, and my chest felt bloated and restrained.

My image in the adjoining lounger was unchanged, eyes open but staring at some unknown cloud in the night sky. Looking up, I noticed that stars were out. Where was the storm? I hadn’t thought we’d been out that long.

"You okay?" I queried. My voice hadn’t lost its girlishness, that was certain.

The distant gaze slowly turned and, with some effort, focused on me. "Yea, I guess so," said the deep but strained bass, the almost-smile lopsided. "That shot we took didn’t undo Sonya’s work, did it? Our voices still fit our outsides."

"Maybe we better ask her about that before we leave?"

"Naw, it can wait until I feel less like death warmed over. The whole world is tilting sideways, and (..ULP!..) my stomach’s doin’ flipflops, even layin’ down. Besides, this damn outfit is so tight it feels like there’s a handful of eggs between my legs. How you doin’?"

I swallowed hard for the umpteenth time to hold down my lunch as the universe did cartwheels around me.

"WeelIl (ulp) ...not the egg part, but definitely I’ve got the rest, ...(gulph). with a vengeance. What did that old broad do, call down the wrath of the God’s on me? ...uh, on us?"

"Oh, don’t be absurd, Jason. Even I don’t think she’s got that kind of power. It was just a freak of nature. Just coincidence."

I’d been propped slightly on one elbow to better see Angela. Then the world tilted radically to the left and I flopped back immediately as a means of self-preservation. My eyes clamped tightly shut to extinguish at least the appearance of the drunken pitch of the ground. The surge of renewed vertigo accompanied a violent attack of nausea. "Oh God," I groaned. "This is death cooling off, not warmed over."

Even with my eyes closed the lounger seemed to pitch and yaw like a rowboat in ten-foot seas.

With some effort, the butler’s formal cultured voice penetrated my misery. "Excuse me, ...uh.. Sir, but the Doctor has asked me to see that you both take one of these Dramamine tablets. He said it would help ease your discomfort until you can get to your residence." His blurred penguin-suit visage stood between us as we both, very unsteadily, took the proffered pill and sip of water. Short of death itself, maybe it would help, I hoped, if by some miracle it stayed down. Andrew added, "I’ll be back with the chauffeur to help you home when you think you feel well enough to do so, .uh.., Sir."

Which seemed like eons later, during which neither of us was particularly talkative. We were both just too darned miserable, consumed by our own personal anguish. But we both eventually decided that being home and miserable was far better than lying out in the open among strangers. By some miracle, the pill had stayed down, and had even managed to reduce the vertigo and nausea. However, we both still needed a strong arm for support as we shuffled sluggishly toward the front of the mansion. We’d have particularly enjoyed the ride in Mr. Murtelli’s personal limousine if we hadn’t been so nauseous and miserable. Aloud, I grumbled halfheartedly about our own car being left behind.

Andrew answered from the front seat where he’d joined the chauffeur. "We took the liberty of acquiring your car keys from your ...uh.. wife, Sir.’ I realized our disguises were giving him some identification problems. "We will bring it ‘round tomorrow and pop the keys in your mail slot. Will that be satisfactory, Sir?" he asked formally.

"Uh hub, I groaned softly. Snuggled in the comfortably spacious rear seat of the limo, Angie and I held each other tightly, each needing an anchor upon which to focus for support and comfort in a topsy-turvy world.

 

My discomfort was gradually ebbing as I concentrated on the soothing presence beside me. Only then did I become vaguely aware of what I’d perceived only fleetingly upon recovering consciousness. There had been a sense of heaviness about my hips and butt while struggling to the car. And that same bloated but constricted tension in my chest. Also, the restraining pressure on my waist and feet, even in the tight reinforced dress and high heels, was decidedly lessened. Recalling my observations of the oddly soft slenderness of my fingers when first awakening, I tried to examine them more closely, but my eyes wouldn’t focus properly. Overall, my body had apparently somehow adapted to its current restraints. Or my brain was too busy recovering from the electric jolt and its consequences to bother dealing with much else, thereby toning down "less important" sensory distresses. My internal torment never abated enough to allow analysis of the decidedly unpleasant tension and disorientation. Still, there was this growing sense of wrongness.

 

Finally at home, after one of the most harrowing experiences of my life, we headed straight for the aspirin, then the bedroom.

"Honey?" I croaked. "You ever get me near that damn woman again and, I swear, Ill divorce you. If I recover, that is!"

"Don’t worry, Babe. After tonight I’m gonna be a lot more careful about getting near her myself. Even knowing she wasn’t part of what happened to us doesn’t help me shake the connection." Struggling with and finally removing her boots, she added, "Damn, my feet hurt! Suddenly, those boots were four sizes too small. How are you doin’, Hon?"

I’d kicked off the heels with a sigh of relief. Reaching up beneath the heavy calico gown, the wide elastic waistband stretched enough that I could pull the crinolines down over my hips. Throwing the crisp slips at a chair, I answered, "Uh.. okay, considering." By stretching my hands back, I could easily locate the solid line of satin-covered buttons, but long nails again would not facilitate their release.

"Help me with this dress, will ya?"

"Yea, sure." She rose unsteadily and I turned to give her access. "...uh.. Honey..," she stammered, "have you noticed anything weird ...uh.. since we woke up? Like strange feelings or unpleasant awkwardness?"

"I know I’m sick as a dog---"

"No, not that. Something else, something strange." The unbuttoning stopped. "Even as bad as I feel, there’s a sense of strength, ...of...of power."

I turned t₀ face her, looking up slightly to make eye contact. "All I feel is sick and weak. I had some odd feelings earlier, bu ....!" My voice trailed off in mid-word. Angie had already stripped down to her/his BVDs, while I still wore the dress, nylons, panties, and garters. Glancing down, I confirmed that we were both minus shoes.

Angela was at least two inches taller than me!!

For a completely different reason, the hollow in the pit of my stomach opened into a bottomless chasm. A growing awareness and dread of what may have been done to us was joined by an equally expanding realization of what Lady Corinne had meant by using the fullness of her Power, impossibly ridiculous though it seemed.

Fearing, yet admittedly exhilarated by the prospect and knowing how to quickly confirm my suspicions, I looked up into my wife’s eyes. "Honey, are you having trouble focusing your eyes?"

Apparently oblivious to our height disparity, she answered, "Yea, Lam. Can’t see too good at all, in fact. That lightning must have screwed up my vision worse that it already was. Even my contacts don’t help mow."

Confirmation? Seeing with squinting difficulty, a curious expression on her man’s face, Angie watched as I pulled the loosened dress down over flared hips and it joined the slips. Now naked above the waist, my hands swept lightly over ‘padded’ hips and thighs beneath panties and hose. Ignoring potential damage by long nails, fingers hooked the panty waistband and tugged the lacy garment down to my knees exposing my crotch. I could FEEL my nails slide past garter belt, across pubic hair and labial folds, then one digit probed. My hand jumped away is if shocked again.

"YYIIIEEeee....!" The shock was almost unbearable, and I nearly succumbed to a violent desire to faint.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Jase?" Angie’s thick bass blurted. Solid hands grasped my shoulders. My breasts shook heavily, their weight tugging at my ribcage.

"Oh God, Ange!" I stammered as tears poured down my cheeks. Never having been one prone to cry, this was all the more degrading. And I noticed that Angie’s knuckles were hairy! "What has she done to us?" I plumped heavily onto the bed, redoubling the quaking bouncing of my chest. Crying profusely, I cupped a huge teat in each hand and pointed the nipples at Ange-as-me. "Honey ...(sob).., they’re mine now, really mine ..(sob)!! …It’s all become REAL!! Tits, cunt.. (sob) ..everything! ...I’ll even (sob) need your contacts to .... Oh, Ange! Why’d she do (sob) this? WHY?"

Dumbfounded by my outburst, she stared. Whether unbelieving or unaccepting, I could not tell.

"Haven’t you figured it out yet? (sob) Don’t you know (sob) what that crazed bitch .. (sniff) . .has done?" No answer, just a wide-eyed stare, mouth gaping. "She said we’d get our hearts’ desires, our fondest wish, right?" Studied nod. Through another bout of tears, wailed, "Oh, Honey, I’m so sorry... really (sob.. .sniff) truly sorry. I brought this on us... (sob!)" Extremely aware of bare arms brushing across exposed breast flesh, I wiped tears away, steeled myself against the dawning realization in Angela’s eyes. I stood. (Damn, those boobs are heavy!)

Her mouth flexed like a goldfish. "…..oooOOHH…SHIT! T..Th. .That means..I..I..." Eyes wide, she stared down at her flat chest and beyond. Pulling at sparse chest hairs with thickened fingers, her eyes went even wider at the sharp little twinges. With a single convulsive motion, the Levi’s and cotton underwear came off.

Whatever had zapped me into a perfect duplicate of Angela had done just as thorough a job on my wife. From my angle the penis and testicles looked rather average, having had plenty of opportunities for comparison in Men’s Rooms and gym showers. To her, however, they must have seemed monstrous (in more than one sense). Larger than the undersized simulations that had preceded them, they were most certainly REAL! Even as I watched, the cock began to swell, much to my amusement.

I sputtered a tearful giggle.

Ange was thunderstruck. "MY GOD!" she bellowed. "This is sick! What the Hell right did She have doing this to me...uh...to us?" With relish, I noted that Lady Corinne herself may have done what I could never hope to accomplish, namely turned Angela against her.

Head angling about, the figure with Angie inside examined the tightly muscled biceps, solid barrel chest, lean hips, hairy legs, replumbed crotch. "How the HELL do you walk without causing a rupture?" Her examination gained a noticeable tone of awe, even relish. She was adjusting much more quickly than me, and I was the supposed "pervert".

I forced a slight smile. "Just do what you’ve been doing. But be careful when you cross your legs," I chuckled quietly.

Ange favored me with a disdainful expression, then her gaze roved over my curvaceous body. "1 could tell you the same thing, ya know. Only the application is different." She checked ‘herself’ again. (I decided that the pronouns and names would have to be readjusted yet another time, hopefully not the last!) "This plumbing is so damn bulky! Definitely gonna take some getting used to." Seriously, she added, "Now what do we do, though? Instead of just disguises, Lady Corinne is unquestionably to blame for us REALLY BEING complete functional duplicates of each other. Her Power must be far far greater than even I ever imagined! And if I know Corinne, and I do, pretty well anyway, she’ll let us stay like this for a while, probably to give you a chance to stew, then exact a heavy price for restoring us to ourselves again.

"Well, if that’s the case, we’d better make the best of it until you can contact her and find out how expensive it’ll be. Meantime, how about some sleep? This body may be all female for real, but that electric shock’s after-effects still haven’t worn off. I feel like I’ve got a terminal case of the flu."

"Me too. Shakily, but with a much calmed demeanor, she (or is it HE now?) retrieved the discarded briefs and pulled them back on, with appropriate though tentative adjustments. Then Angela turned down the bed sheets. "We’ll both probably feel a lot better after some rest. A good night’s sleep will clear our thinking too, and that’ll help considerably if we’re to get this all worked out. Besides, I’ll make an educated bet that Corinne’s not about to even so much as talk to us before tomorrow at the earliest."

In a stupor, I angrily tugged at the ruffled panties, garters and hose from around my ankles, doing considerable damage to the latter with my nails. Angie handed me a pair of nylon panties and a peach colored knee-length nightgown at diaphanous nylon. It had short puffed sleeves, a wide elastic band that snugly marked the high waist just beneath my breasts, and a deep V-shaped bodice with no support, leaving my fleshy mountains unfettered and very thoroughly exposed. The twin dark patches of aureole showed clearly through the thin fabric, as did the thumb-point nubbin of each nipple. Naked, I’d noted that my overall complexion was an unblemished creamy white while Angela’s masculine contours had acquired a generally tanned ruggedness.

Seated on the bed’s edge, I stared down at warm breasts. "Looks like the act goes on with a vengeance,

"That’s for sure.’ Angela hit the lights and I felt her climb in on her usual side.

Suddenly, suppressed tension poured from me in tearful wrenching sobs and I curled into the crook of Angie’s arm, head on her bare chest. It seemed the natural thing to do, pleasantly comfortable and reassuring. A light caress brushed soothingly through the long hair that I knew was really mine now, too.

"Cry it out, Jase. Atta girl. We’ll straighten things out tomorrow."

While I did wonder if she realized that she’d automatically called me ‘girl’, somehow her using the cross-gender pronoun didn’t bother me. I must have been too busy crying myself to sleep.

 

Troubled sleep was interspersed with convoluted images of the past week. Trying on Angie’s underwear to appease my tv-ism. Her proposal to win the prize. The unaccustomed sleek smoothness of hairless legs and armpits. The incongruous sight of perfectly simulated breasts bulging from my own chest. Working hard to get my makeup just right and failing miserably. The shock of seeing Angie-as-me for the first time. Staring at my reflection in the mirror and seeing my wife’s face. The terrible pressure of that full corset. The terror of appearing in public at the Party. The revelation before the party crowd. Confronting Lady Corinne. The thunderbolt’s sudden flashing brilliance.

And there was last night’s dream, with incredible clarity.

His hand softly stroked the soft bulge of my stomach. Warm, soothing, the fingers traced a line up between my flattened breasts. Gently coaxing my chin sideways, his warm lips pressed into mine, tongues dodging in a wet game of tag. An arm reached beneath to support my head, my own arms thrown over his broad shoulders, red nails wandering across the firm thickly muscled neck and back. His free hand glided eagerly across smooth sensitive flesh as he caressed my breasts, squeezing, stroking, rubbing, and pinching the engorged nipples where a warm glow of pleasure grew and expanded from the twin towers until the tender flesh burned beneath his ministrations. His lips traced a fiery line down my throat and across throbbing tits. A spasm of rapture lanced deep into my bosom, needing, wanting, and desiring, as his tongue played with and lips surrounded a fat brown nipple. The suckling almost drove me crazy. A second, double-barreled spasm fired me to higher plains as fingers fondled and pinched the other exposed pap.

Somehow, we were naked. My gown and panties, his pj’s and briefs gone. Exposed, vulnerable, and loving every second of it, I lay in his arms, squirming beneath the onslaught of pure desire and animal lust. I prayed for him to drive me higher. My senses were rapidly becoming overwhelmed, and I wanted more. My need was irresistible. The growing fire between my legs demanding appeasement, my fingers knew the object of that need and worked purposefully down his spine, across the trim firmly packed buttocks, feeling the object of my slow progress nestled against my thigh, growing more voluminous by the second. Slowly, my slender digits worked across his narrow hips and thick pubic mat to grasp their destination. IT was huge! A full, rampant erection. I had already enjoyed the pleasure of a mild orgasmic jolt during his avid suckling. In fact, the massive size of my breasts allowed him to suck at both mains together, which he was now avidly accomplishing. JOLT!

God! It all felt sss0000ooo good, including that which I grasped between us. My small hand could barely encircle the thick turgid shaft. I wanted that pinnacle, that ultimate height, but he was so involved at my breasts, I had to tug slightly to coax him into position. Never releasing his double-barreled suction, the bulk of muscle swung up and settled between my sprawling thighs. I was ready!

Finally, the moist lips released my teats. His wet caresses progressed upward and our mouths crushed together wantonly. I felt something warm pushing toward my throbbing tunnel. I thrashed for release in his arms. It touched my crotch. Probed. The engorged head pressed deliberately forward and slid slowly into the moist cavity. Entry was smooth, easy, well lubricated. It felt so wonderful!! Desperately, my legs rose and locked around him, then pulled. The massive pole rushed inward with sudden (though expected) force and was buried to it’s base, my body absorbing it easily, and it filled me to my depths. Then he began to move, slowly, the bulk of his penis thrusting with a piston rhythm that pushed me to that highest of heights, that ultimate peak of ecstatic orgasm.

"..oooODHHhhooo...!" I moaned as the orgasmic convulsion rocked my body in sync with his thrusts. "OH. .Oh. .oh!" His motion gained momentum, his organ ramming in and out with spastic force. Suddenly, he froze, buried to the hilt, penetrating to its full depth, feeling as though it filled my entire body from crotch to throat. Deep within, I felt several subtle but distinct pulses of his beautiful love shaft as his life essence splashed enthusiastically into the depths of my being. I was so overcome with the powerful joy and pleasure of the experience that I almost didn’t notice that his deep masculine voice was speaking softly into my ear.

"..(sigh).. Oh, darling. That feels so incredibly good!" His breath brushed my neck.

"Tell me about it," I gasped through ragged breaths. Gradually coming down off that incredibly glorious height to which he had driven me, I perceived his pole retreating from my depths as it quickly lost its wonderful erectile ability.

Breathing slowing rapidly to a relaxed glowing-warmth level, we lay in each other's arms. The moist warmth between my legs was not at all uncomfortable. I ignored the wet spot on the sheet as dawn’s rosy glow filled the room.

 

DAWN?

I was watching the sunrise! My eyes were open! AWAKE! Did he.. he... we..? Coming fully alert instantly is a difficult feat, but I managed to do just that.

"Ange, Honey, what’s wrong? You’re so tense," came the mellow male voice from beside me.

Brushing long tangled curls from my face, I only just realized he was absently stroking my hip. It felt good, too! Trying desperately to hold my train of.... Damn, I was naked too!! "...uh..., did we... did we just...?" I couldn’t finish!

"Uh huh," cut in his casual self-satisfied grin. "It was wonderful too. Not at all like imagined I stared at him open-mouthed as he analyzed. "Quite wonderful indeed. I had a lesbian experience way back in high school with a close friend, but the memory pales considerably by comparison. That bod of yours stimulated my action, even accelerated it." A dreamy expression crossed his face. "And the strength..., the power of release was incredible.., truly awesome."

"But, Darling," my trilling female vocal cords croaked as I fought the warm joy of recollection, "this is nuts. We shouldn’t have been doing that at all, much less liking it. You’re Angela, my wife! I’m Jason, your husband!" I was near panic, hoping, wishing I were really dreaming it all.

"Not at the moment, and not until we can get Lady Corinne to restore us. Besides, you enjoyed it too, didn’t you?"

"Y..Yea, sure I..." I cut it off and tried desperately to change the subject. "Speaking of Lady Corinne, call her, NOW. I want that body back, ya hear?" I poked a sharp red nail into his firm hairy chest.

"Ouch! ...Ok, I’ll call. But first, we cotta talk," he insisted.

"About what?"

During the instant before ‘he’ responded, I watched his thoughtful expression as the female brain behind my old face organized itself with deliberate effort. A sure sign that my spouse would not be swerved from whatever course that mind now pursued. Knowing from long experience that to do otherwise was wasted effort, I resolved to see it through, forcing myself to ignore my own number-one priority, calling Corinne.

After a few seconds the bass tone rumbled, "Remember? Corinne said I’d get a gift? And you’d get a sign?"

"Yea, what of it?" I jerked away and tried to ignore the warm glow that resulted when she... (oops) ..he tweaked a still-tingling nipple.

"This is your sign," he informed, then poked his own chest, "and my gift. Remember, too, that we were to watch for the witching hour, right?" Nod. "That was the lightning bolt when we were under the trellis."

He was ticking items off on his fingers. "And she said we’d receive our heart’s desire." I glumly nodded once more, knowing and dreading where she was headed. "Well, my Dear, it’s confession time, I fear. And just to be sporting, I’ll go first."

He paused for a few deep breaths before pulling himself up to a sitting position against the headboard. "Growing up female is not the best of situations for a moderately intelligent person who wants to earn her own way and enjoys being independent. It’s still basically a man’s world run by men, and women are still expected to only be what men expect them to be, wives, mothers, ...whatever, in spite of all the supposed progress of Women’s Rights and all that bunk. Your biology limits you physically to some extent, men limit you socially, and the simple fact that you’re female often limits you intellectually. That’s why I’ve always been such an avid feminist. Yet, it still wasn’t enough. I wanted to be the strong one, dominant. When we met, my conservative upbringing kicked in and I fell in love with you. It hurt, though. You only tolerated my activism, and your increasing obsession with your macho-stud image indicated the fragile nature of your self-image, so I never tried to press for equality in our relationship. And it was very painful, Darling. So much ~o that I turned to Lady Corinne for comfort, for solace and advice."

He took in a long deliberate breath and let it out very slowly. "The only real compensation was sex, but as good as that was, I still wanted to be the initiator. Then there was always that biological clock ticking relentlessly inside my body. At best it’s restrictive, painful and messy. At worst it’d produce a baby and ultimately destroy whatever freedom I possessed. For those and a multitude of other reasons, I’ve insisted that we wait to have a family. In fact, as you’ve probably figured out by now, I didn’t want to be a mother at all. The bottom line, Honey, Is that I’ve never really enjoyed being a woman. That’s the crux of it." I remained silently attentive. "I wanted to escape the awkward confinement of being female. To put it even more bluntly, I wanted to be a man, the Boss, the muscle, Head of the House. Do you understand what I’m saying?" he pleaded.

"Uh..., I think so," I answered hesitantly, realizing with instant clarity that the clues had always been there if only I’d cared to look far enough beyond my own fetish to notice.

"So," he continued, "giving me your male body and the physical and social power it symbolizes to me was Lady Corinne ‘ s so-called gift. And..."

I finished for her, "..and me getting your well-hinged femaleness was my curse."

"Not necessarily. She said it was your sign."

"Huh?"

"She also said we’d both get our heart’s desire. Mine was to be a man in a man’s world." A firm male hand pulled my chin around until our eyes locked. "Darling, what was your deepest darkest wish?"

There it was. The Question!! The cold chill of dread creeping up my spine as s/he approached that finale was suddenly quashed by a warm glow of relief.

Finally, and honestly, I could reveal my inner self to the one person I loved most in this miserable world. Granted, our current state of existence contributed greatly. But, even beyond that fleshy fact, I found a deeply profound love, genderless, welling up within me to almost orgasmic proportions. With incredible swiftness, my long-active terror at the prospect of revealing my secret gave way to eager abandon as I revealed my transvestite soul to my lover.

Sitting very closely, he interrupted only rarely and then it was with a quick question, comment, or observation. Otherwise, he sat stoically silent, responding to my lengthy monologue with only a raised eyebrow or quirk of lips to indicate whatever emotions lay beneath. Occasionally, fingers quietly patted my own, a thick hand brushed lightly at my thick tresses, the strong arms hugged gently, all calculated to be the calming and reassuring gestures they were meant to be, showing signs of the uniquely special sharing we were experiencing. In some ways it was just as exceptional, maybe even more meaningful, than this sharing of our bodies.

 

The deeply probing conversation that followed, along with the sexual knowledge we’d gained from both viewpoints, allowed us to acquire a far more thorough understanding of each other than any couple in history (at least as far as I knew). It was somewhat overwhelming, to say the least.

We wound down some time later.

"Honey, this has all been really fascinating," I said eventually, "...well, almost all of it anyway. But shouldn’t we be calling Lady Corinne to see about getting things restored to their proper arrangement?" Our eyes automatically swept over both bodacious bods, admiring, critiquing.

He shrugged. "Yea, I suppose so. But it would be kinda interesting to let things be, for a while at least. Maybe just ‘til Doc. Wagner gives us a checkup and we hafta go back to work, eh’?"

"Careful, your fantasies are showing." I wagged a manicured finger at his nose and smiled. It was tempting, I had to admit. Yet there were potential complications that couldn’t be overlooked or ignored. "And what if Doris shows up? Or any of a multitude of people? What then? I might have your female exterior, but before too long Doris or someone else is bound to trip up one of us somehow. After all, despite her obvious flaws, she is your best friend, or was, or...

Anyway! We can’t stay this way for long without people eventually figuring out something’s terribly strange about us. NO, we’ve gotta get Corinne to undo whatever she did or had done to us. Call her, okay?"

Grudgingly, he replied, "Okay, but it would’ve been fu "

"Hey!" My right nipple got a hard tweak that sent mildly arousing shock waves through every nerve in my bulging chest. Grabbing the phone, I aimed it at his reawakened rampart, then innocently dropped the receiver on his firm stomach instead. His gasp and swift retreat were ample reward for my action. "Call her! I’m gonna take a shower."

All too aware of the desire my body radiated, I disengaged my creamy soft curves from his persistent but guarded grasp and headed into the bathroom. Every giggle of hip, every sway/bounce of weighty breasts, every sweep of hair across shoulders and back intensified my want, my need to again have that center of being between my legs awakened by the manhood I once possessed. And the hell of it was, the supposed perversion of those thoughts never entered my mind. Simply put, I lusted for him!!

Beneath the steaming spray, I found that fingers are no substitute for the "real thing". By the time I was dried I was eagerly considering whether we could repeat the early morning’s exercise, only more consciously so as to reap its full benefit.

As I returned, towel wrapped about me and tucked together above my bulging chest, girl fashion, I heard the telephone’s receiver click into its cradle.

The look on Angie’s face (was it "Jason’s" now?) was not a happy one. "She can’t or won’t see us until Friday," he announced.

‘What? That’s almost a week away! What do we do until then?"

His rugged Jason-face broke out in a wide devilish grin. "To quote Lady Corinne when I voiced that same objection, we ‘cope’.’

I plopped heavily on the mussed bed. "Rod! Now what? We have to so see Doc. Wagner in a couple of days. Hell, we don’t act sick or in shock even now, and that bolt zapped us barely...," I glanced at the bedside alarm clock, "..ten hours ago. He’s bound to give us a clean bill of health, if we can manage to act natural enough to avoid any catastrophes. And that means going back to work!" A tiny nervous twinge of panic cracked my voice. "You’re safe since I wasn’t working anyway, but I’d have to report to your office and I don’t know a damned thing about what you do there. I don’t even know the names of the people you work with, much less their faces. Call her back and insist..."

An iron grasp closed on my arm and drew me firmly across the short span of rumpled sheets to his solid embrace. My old voice said, "There are certain ..uh... options.." The hard shaft I’d so recently considered reacquainting myself with made its own will known. The next several days promised to be exceedingly interesting and informative (if not downright pleasurable)

They were!

 

We immediately decided to be inseparable, thus allowing for mutual protection in dire situations, just as we’d done at the Party. This, and what I like to think of as our better-than-average acting abilities, seemed to cover our "rearranged identities" quite adequately.

Dr. Wagner’s nurse/assistant called late Sunday to check on our condition and made an appointment for early Wednesday morning. The visit was essentially routine, and ‘Doc’ never gave us reason to think that he suspected a thing while he performed a thorough but basic predictably routine physical (temperature, blood pressure, etc.) on each of us before he pronounced us fit. Of course, his cursory and far less than thorough examinations helped, plus the fact that visits to a doctor’s office are hardly conducive to personal interchanges that might have caused us concern.

However, being the cautious and conscientious physician that he usually wasn’t, we were advised to take the balance of the week off and continue our "miraculous recovery". Until then he hadn’t realized that ‘Jason’ was not working, but did clear Angie’s extended absence with her office via a short phone conversation with Kurtelli’s secretary.

 

Doris was another matter. She showed up about noon Sunday, and from then on was popping in to check on us with disturbing regularity, like an old mother hen herding her chicks. Along with everything else, I’d spilled the beans to Ange-as-me about my heroic efforts at fending off Doris’ persistent little play for me, so neither of us were surprised when she renewed her efforts, ignorant as to ‘who" she courted, of course. Still, I had to admire her ability to pursue my darling ‘husband’ despite our rarely being apart, except in the confines of our apartment. Doris’ efforts, even in the face of equally persistent rejection, were an ongoing source of amusement for us both, one of the rare non-sexual diversions we enjoyed that week. ‘Jason s reaction was downright comical

 

Then, of course, there was the sex! Recalling my randy behavior as a male of the species, it was hardly surprising (and ultimately quite logical when I considered the subject objectively) that our lovemaking was incredibly frequent. Exploring the wondrous joys of various "situations" from my newly voluptuous functionally female perspective was both enjoyable and educational. In fact, it was absolutely fantastic! The only minor wrench in the works was when blind lust pushed us into oral sex. We’d done it only a few times during our relationship (pre-switch) and I’d enjoyed the uniqueness of it, but did not pursue the experience after Angela revealed that she preferred it otherwise. For all intents and purposes I felt the same. It was basically fulfilling, but nothing too spectacular --pretty ‘hohum’ actually. Now, sixty-nining as a woman, I liked getting eaten, didn’t care for my own part though. The overwhelming eroticism of the moment drove us both on, but even as a female I found the experience less than satisfying. Besides, I hated the taste! Once was enough!

 

Sex, and fending off Doris’s frequent and interminable nattering/lusting visits, occupied only so much time, although some things did require our attention, at least temporarily. ‘Jason’ really enjoyed not needing glasses, but I was stuck with having to learn about the care, maintenance, and use of contacts. Hell, I couldn’t even read the newspaper headlines without them! Then there was the Monday morning call from Sonya asking us if we could be at SPECIAL PROJECTS at noon. With ‘hubby’ on the extension, I begged off until we’d seen Dr. Wagner, and Sonya conceded. That done, we had some time to kill until we could see Lady Corinne and get our rightful bodies back!

It wasn’t easy.

Neither of us liked much of what television offered. Like Jack Spratt and his wife, we complemented each other. I hated game shows, and Ange hated soap operas. So, out of sheer boredom, we ventured out into the public domain and flexed our acting muscles. My previous crash course in the fine art of producing a work of art using my face and the intimidating variety of cosmetics my spouse owned came in real handy. It took some adjusting, but I gradually learned to enjoy making up my pretty feminine features and dressing elegantly for a night out at a restaurant, movie, or stage production. Once we even ventured into a nightclub for dinner and dancing, with mixed results, the meat was excellent, but then we got adventurous and tried the dance floor. I kept trying to lead so-the experiment only lasted a couple of awkward hours.

For these outings, I took extra delight in pouring myself into some of Angela’s most beautiful gowns. Learning to accept and pretending to ignore the lustful male glances at my abundant assets was not easy though, and was virtually impossible to avoid since everything in her wardrobe was extremely revealing, low-cut, and generally form-fitting. Angie had always enjoyed her beauty and what it did to men ("After all," she admitted, "that’s how I got you, wasn’t it?" It was!), and she had selected her extensive wardrobe accordingly. Now, I had her buxom curves and was presenting them for inspection.

"Why cover it all up," ‘he’ winked, "when you can give those poor male slobs a taste, at least visually, of what only I can appreciate completely?"

Although oddly disconcerting, I had to agree. "The poor schmucks!" I camped. "If only they knew just how completely!" Passersby gawked a bit at our burst of raucous laughter while we shared the incredible truth of what those men would never know.

 

As our appointment with Lady Corinne approached, I had some misgivings about returning to my old male self. This woman’s body was so much more pleasurable to possess. Yes, so much more sensual. Even the subtle pressure of bra’s made my nipples stand up and take notice. And the incredible sensuality, the satiny textures of female clothing, sleek pantyhose, nylon panties, soft whispery slips, were almost overpowering at times, and sexually stimulating in their own right.

 

Time did march on until Friday found us sitting in the lush reception lounge of Lady Corinne’s downtown penthouse suite awaiting her pleasure. While he never spoke of it, the look in ‘Jason’s’ eyes showed a sadness, a reluctance to give up the ‘experiment’. I wondered if ‘he’ read the same emotions in my own expression? Yet, it had to be. We’d already decided that between us. Grand as the experience was, It had to end before the house of cards that was our identity-exchanged existence fell down around our ears.

After a long wait, we were called into a surprisingly modern executive office. Lady Corinne, standing regally in front of the huge oak desk, beckoned us toward a nearby sofa. Instead of the theatrical cowled robe, her attire was an ordinary conservative woman’s style, although plain charcoal-gray wool skirt and blazer, silk blouse, flat black loafers. Her lace still showed age, but discrete makeup over the stark albino-white features masked even that to a great degree, as did blue contact lenses. The short-cropped snow-white hair gave her a sort of grandmother’ image. Here was the ‘person’ I’d seen in the photographs!

Ange and I remained silent as she scrutinized us closely for long seconds, those penetrating eyes memorizing our every feature with almost tangible glee before her lips finally moved from their indifferent tightness. Was that a gleam behind those blue contacts? "Well? What do you want?"

"..uh..," Ange-as-me faltered.

I cut irritably into ‘his’ stammer. "We want back?"

"Back to what?" the Albino Witch crooned icily with mock ignorance.

"We want our old bodies back!" my tremulous female voice countered hotly. "I want to be a NAN again. And Angela wants this body back too. If you can DO it, you can UNDO it."

Holding back my revulsion, I allowed Her to take my small manicured hand gently in her cold clammy grasp. Those eyes bore deeply into my soul. "You have your heart’s desire," she taunted. "Aren’t you happy with that? Most people would be overjoyed with such an arrangement.., have been, in fact."

Aha, so she’d pulled this stunt on others, eh? "I’m not happy with it at all, Corinne. Fantasies are human escape mechanisms, but I’m sure you know enough about human nature to have figured out by now that if anyone’s fantasies are made real they are rarely all they’re cracked up to be. If fact, they can literally become nightmares. Ours isn’t quite that, but my having Angela’s female body and her having my male form is just too awkward. We can’t function as each other for long without slipping up somewhere and the truth being at least guessed at, insane though it might seem," I admitted. "Change us back,...puullleezz."

I was watched her sidelong glance at my partner, then back at my well-exposed bosom. "You should have thought of that before you insulted me, my dear fellow." Her voice oozed sweetness, but the undercurrent of vengeful anger was unmistakable. She turned back to the ‘man’ beside me, and her tone quickly turned to concern. "My Dear, do you feel likewise?"

"Well ..," ‘he’ groped hesitantly for the right words, licked dry lips, then steadied. "I’m not quite as enthusiastic about giving up the sense of power this form gives me, M’Lady. But Jase is right, this situation is almost intolerable. It definitely complicates our lives, not to mention our careers."

A sly smirk crossed her dry lips and disappeared. "Hmmm, yes, I must admit you’re both right." Thoughtfully, she stroked her chin with thin fingers, nodded to herself, and moved to the desk. She grasped the Crystal Ball from its holder (was it the one from the Tent, I wondered?) and stared into it in a glassy-eyed trance for at least a minute. Eventually her eyes focused once more on us as she seemed to have made a decision.

"Jason! ...JASONY"

The officiousness of her tone came as from a great distance as my thoughts had wandered, considering what drastic measures I might be able to take if our desperate plea went unanswered. It startled me back to full attention when I realized she was addressing me. I’d been answering to "Angie" for most of the past week and the sudden reversal sounded strange.

"..uh...Yes?" I acknowledged finally.

"Do you now doubt my Power?"

‘"Not in the least," I declared unhesitatingly, hoping fervently that I sounded convinced.

She turned. "Angela, you have been faithful to me ever since we first met, and maintained your faith, even under the unrelenting pressure of your husband’s derisive attitude. I admire and cherish such devotion and loyalty both to myself and to your husband as well, despite the conflicts this caused in your life. And maybe you’ve both learned a lasting lesson from the past few days, although your partner hers most certainly needs a further dose of ‘her’ current predicament if ‘she’s’ to gain a true feeling for what a REAL woman’s life is actually like. Not to mention the fact that Jason was such a snobbish psuedo-macho creep."

My heart sank. Was she really going to let us go on as is? Did she actually plan to make me retain this female form indefinitely? I had no doubt that she was aware of my transvestite fantasies. Her intimate knowledge of us both was undeniable. I wondered whether, even at her advanced age, she was into Feminism as deeply as was Angela. If so, was she trying to prove to me that a woman’s life wasn’t as glorious and sensual as I’d fantasized it to be. Her last words seemed to affirm that possibility. And what could I possibly do or say to convince her that I was completely thoroughly whipped, contrite and repentant. And what about that time bomb ticking between my hips..?! Absolute terror gripped my gut when I suddenly realized I’d not touched the birth control pills in Angie’s section of the bathroom medicine cabinet, the pills she’d been so religious about taking. I rejected the thought. Impossible! I couldn’t possibly be that female, could I? Thankfully, my grotesque fears were apparently unfounded.

"Therefore," she continued, "I shall grant you this request, though it’s against my better judgement."

"Thank God!" I sighed from ‘Jason’s’ powerful hug. Those muscles were real, for sure!

"Come," Lady Corinne instructed.

We eagerly rose and followed her to a locked door that she opened with a key from among several on a necklace hidden beneath her blouse. Beyond was a dim room that matched the inside of the black-draped gazebo almost perfectly small round table draped with black tasseled cloth, guttering tapers, three wicker chairs, but no crystal ball or stand. Just as before, we sat and allowed our hands to be stacked in exactly the same way. Again, Corinne went through an identical ritual of concentration and apparent short trance. Those cheap Theatrics sorely shook my recently acquired belief in her ‘powers, but I swallowed a doubter’s grunt and waited patiently, enduring.

Suddenly the sequence changed drastically. Slowly, I became aware of a low chortling, almost like the proverbial witch’s cackle, emanating from Lady Corinne’s throat. Then her eyes snapped open wide and the sound rapidly built into a horrendous roaring laughter that cut down my spine as her head shot up.

With lightning speed and a strength of which I’d never have believed her capable, she wrenched her hands from the ‘pyramid’ and jumped to her feet.

"Hahaha...," she bellowed lustily. "Oh, this is (heehee) so precious ..ha.. What incredible luck...hohoho...! Oh My, how sweet. Hahaha!’ She buried her face in a fist full of curtain, but the muted crowing continued uninterrupted for several moments.

Dumbly, we sat and waited.

Nothing had happened. Nothing! Breasts still ballooned from my chest (I could feel the material of the bra cups holding the spongy flesh firmly in place). Long auburn waves still brushed my shoulders and tickled the expanse of creamy flesh that formed the deep well-exposed cleavage. Expansive hips still flared shelf-like from my diminutive waist. My empty crotch pressed flush against the chair, legs crossed firmly, unobstructed. Grieving over my lost manhood, terrified that I might forever remain in this female form (despite whatever fantasies I may have had otherwise), I clutched nervously at my mate’s thick hands. My questioning look toward ‘Jason’s’ still-bewiskered face was no more assuring than the muffled laughter. ‘He’ was obviously just as puzzled by Corrine’s mysteriously gleeful outburst.

Holding hands with a certain cold desperation, we waited until she wound down. It took a while, but finally she released the curtain. Pulling a dainty lace handkerchief from a pocket, she dabbed at tear-stained cheeks and swollen eyes.

Hiccups punctuated her words. "(hic) Oh, My Dears, ..(hic) I’m truly sorry, but (hic).. I can do nothing ..(hlc) for you at ..(Hic). this time."

"WHY NOT?" we both pleaded.

"You DID it! You can UNDO it!"’ I shrieked.

"Ah, but your wrong there, Missy." She was back in control now, although a permanent smirk of amusement pulled at her thin lips. "I was the instrument through which IT was done, not the DOER. And reversing your plight is not as easy as it might have been."

"Why not?" I wailed.

"Great though They may be, the unnamed Forces upon which I call for my Power command respect, must be dealt carefully, and, most importantly, can be invoked only within the confines of certain rules which THEY impose upon me."

"What sort of rules?" A sinking feeling gripped the pit of my stomach, as it had when I lay helplessly in that lawn chair at Murtelli’s estate.

The unnaturally brilliant gleam in her moist eyes was almost dazzling as they locked fixedly at my lap, then tracked upwards to my face. "In your case, my dear, the rule preventing me from interfering in any way with the human gestation process."

An oddly high tremulous male voice broke in, ‘his’ tone shrill and strained. "Gesta.... you mean...?" ‘He’ turned to me, shaking all over, looked down at my stomach, eyes wide as saucers, trembling fingers touched his lips. "Oh...MY GOD!!"

Delicate fingers flew to my slightly rounded abdomen, firmly pressing into soft yielding flesh under dress, hose, panties, probing impotently for the horrible truth of life’s reality buried deeply within my new FEMALE body. In desolate panic I recalled all the times over the past several days when we’d been so bored sitting around our apartment, and had found sol ice and sensual comfort in each other’s arms so many times. I thought of all those fantastic pinnacles to which both of us had so willingly aspired; and of the incredible glow of pleasure my generously rounded woman’s flesh had experienced each gloriously frequent time ‘he’ had blissfully pumped wiggly-saturated jism into those procreative depths of mine where it had splashed so enthusiastically at the door of my fertile brand spanking new woman’s womb to seek out nature’s destiny.

SHOCK grew into a blazing inferno of red-orange light, then a curtain of blackness pulled inwards from the edges of sight, like a camera lens slowly closing across my eyes.

Just as the world faded into oblivion, I heard Lady Corinne final words. "Come back in about eighteen months, after the babies are weaned."

From a great distance, a young woman’s light soprano droned a terrified gurgle. "AAIIYYEEeeee…!"

 

 

THE END??

 

 

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© 2001 by Lorna Samuels. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.