Frankie

Copyright 1999 by Samantha Michelle. Permission given to post on FictionMania and Sapphire's.

Standard warning and disclaimer: All characters are fictional. If you see yourself, buy a new mirror. Contains subjects some people may find offensive. If you are one of them, why are your reading this? Protect your kids. If you are worried about them reading this sort of material, please censor free speech and use a safe surfing program such as net nanny. Or better yet, teach them early and lovingly to understand and accept different lifestyles. Before they learn they from bad experiences.

Constructive comments appreciated. I have a delete button and I'm not afraid to use it! Please send comments to sam@pobox.alaska.net

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Frankie by: Samantha Michelle

 

I'm sitting here at my desk, dressed for the Halloween party in black leather, clinking with each movement from the much-too-real hardware and chains. It is almost impossible to believe that, four years ago to the day, I was a confused teenager with a sad past and no future. I had one friend in the world, and she was searching the streets for me, afraid I was going to do something really stupid. Like kill myself. Which was what I had already planned as the piece de resistance that Halloween. A quick end to a miserable existence.

My parents had kicked me out at the end of September, when they came home and caught me wearing my sister's heels and new prom dress. I didn't even know why I put them on. But I had been trying on her clothes in secret for years. Dad threatened to kill me, but Mom stopped him, saying it would ruin my sister's dress. Since I had just turned eighteen, even though I had not finished high school, there was nothing I could do about being thrown out.

I managed to bargain the dress for a suitcase of my clothes, and the shoes and my sister's purse for enough money for some food, and bus fare out of town. I figured my father, one he got to his normal state of drunkenness, would put the word out on what had happened. If I was still in town, I would be found a bloody lump at the end of some back street. I took the first bus out going somewhere.

I wound up with about fifty dollars and a suitcase the next morning. In St. Paul, Minnesota. I saw a poster for a youth hostel, and figured it was cheap, safe lodging. Soon I had a bunk and a locker, and had paid in advance for a week. But twenty dollars would not feed me for long. My father had torn up my ID and driver's license, and I quickly found out that getting a job was going to be nearly impossible with no identification. The only place that didn't care if I had ID was a day labor pool, and they laughed at me, saying I was too scrawny to do any real work.

It was Friday, three days later, that I was down to my last couple of bucks, and still jobless. I spied two young women trying to wrestle a large container into a dumpster. I walked over, and even being a certified 110 pound weakling, managed to help lift it. They were wearing aprons covered with flour and food stains. The smell from the door made my very empty stomach cramp, and I doubled over. I guess they realized how hungry I was, and dragged me inside.

One glass of vegetable juice, and a huge piece of quiche later I was thanking them profusely. Apparently they were the early afternoon kitchen staff at an organic food restaurant. They looked frazzled. When I asked why they were so tired, Brenda, a thin, washed-out blonde, said the owner was too cheap to hire enough people. She added that the only reason she stayed was that the work matched her class schedule. The other girl seemed less annoyed. "The pay isn't much, but I get free food and a place to stay"

"At least you have a job." That got Brenda's attention.

"There's a million jobs out there better than this. Almost anything's better than working for the bitch that owns this joint."

I shook my head. "Not if you're new in town, have no identification, and are, well," I looked at myself. "too damn weak to do a man's job." The last came out bitterly. My father had always hated that I was small and frail, it didn't fit his idea of a son who was supposed to take his side in bar-fights.

"Come on, everyone has to have some ID."

I shook my head. "My father tore mine up, along with my driver's license, when he threw me out."

Frankie, who was a tall dark-haired beauty, said "He what? Why?" It made me sit down and rest my head in my hands.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, and then you'd laugh at me and throw me out too." I started to cry just then one of the waiters came back with a large order. I wound up sobbing to myself as I felt the rest of my world collapse around me. I cried myself to sleep right there at the table by the back door.

Frankie woke me up. I was so startled I fell off the chair.

'Hey, are you like, okay?"

I nodded. "At least I won't starve until tomorrow. I'd better get going before you get in trouble for letting me eat something."

"Have you got a place to stay?"

"I'm paid up for a little while at the youth hostel.".

She nodded "By the way, what's your name?".

I hated my name. "Ronald, but most call me Ronnie."

The sounds of a loud argument came from the front, followed by the smashing of plates and glasses. Brenda stomped back, threw her apron into a sink, and grabbed a huge scoop of flour. When a big woman came storming back, Brenda nailed her in the face with it. "I quit, you fat-assed slave driver. That means right now." She grabbed a container of olive oil and doused the woman with it. "You can keep my pay for today." Her next toss was a whole tub of pizza sauce. It got the woman, and the leftovers sprayed all over the kitchen, including Frankie and me.

Brenda grabbed some clothes out of a locker, spied a can of red pepper, pulled off the top, and shouted "Put some spice in your life, asshole" as she threw it in the woman's face and stormed out the back door.

I guess the woman inhaled at the wrong time, but she started coughing and screaming. It took both Frankie and me several minutes of washing and keeping her from choking to get most of the stuff off her face. When she regained her ability to move, she looked at Frankie and me. "Well, don't just stand there, please get the place cleaned up" She staggered out.

I looked at the stains all over my only decent clothes, and shook my head. Frankie handed me a clean apron. "Well, looks like you won't have to worry about dinner tonight. Do you know anything about cooking or cleaning?"

I grabbed a scraper and started to remove goo from the floor, knowing a mop would be just a big paint brush. "Too damn much. Had to work in the kitchen at several bars to pay off some of my father's drinking debts."

"Oh. Shit. Sorry I asked." I nodded.

"It's okay. It was lots better than some of his other ideas." She gave me a startled look, and went back to cleaning, eyeing be warily. I figured that at least this would get me dinner, so I concentrated on working. It took the better part of an hour, between orders, for us to get things to where the kitchen didn't look like a war zone.

We were nearly finished when Frankie looked at me. Shaking her head, she went and found a hair band. "Health department rules. Your hair is longer than Brenda's." It was the one part of me I didn't hate. She pulled it back into a pony tail and secured it. "It's a bit on the girly side, but it works."

That started me crying again.

"Hey, I didn't mean to insult you…"

I just shook my head, not knowing why I reacted that way.

When the big woman returned, she looked around, smiled, and said, "Frankie, you and your friend have done wonders. I'll be glad to pay you both extra if you'll stay around tonight and cover for Brenda."

Frankie caught my eye, winked, and turned to the owner. "Ms. Carson, my friend," she seemed to be thinking, "Ronnie here, is looking for a job and has a lot of experience in working in a kitchen…" I was staring at Frankie.

Ms. Carson looked me over like a piece of beef. "She's a bit on the small side for heavy work, but so was Brenda." She paused. 'Let's see now she does tonight, and if she works out, we'll talk about a permanent job tomorrow…" She looked at me. "I don't pay real well, but all the food you eat is free, and maybe you could room with Frankie to save money." She turned and headed for the front, saying "Got to change into my hostess clothes for the evening."

Frankie looked at me. "Shit. She thought you were a girl. I guess the pony tail was a bit much." The look on my face was one of total disbelief. "Guess it doesn't do your ego much good, hunh?" I shook my head sadly.

We worked together through the rest of the afternoon and evening. I found out the restaurant catered to the business crowd, so it was open Monday through Saturday. They closed at eight, and we sat down for dinner after the last order was filled.

"Brenda's and my jobs were to do the early preparation on weekdays, and handle some of the noon rush on Friday. On Saturdays we worked the kitchen all day." I nodded. I was tired. A rapping at the back door brought a smile to Frankie's face. "The cleanup crew!" Shortly she returned with two clean-cut hulks, whom she introduced as "The Flintstones."

One of them gently picked her up and dangled her head-first over a trash can. Her "Okay, okay, I'll introduce you…" Once back on her feet, she pointed to the bigger one. "This Neanderthal is Fred, and the one already stuffing his face" I looked and the guy was chowing on something leftover "is Barney. Hence their nicknames." She paused. "They play football over at the university, and this is the only way they can afford to eat…" They both gave her a raspberry.

She turned to me "Guys, this is Ronnie, probably Brenda's replacement as Brenda blew her cool this afternoon, and…"

The broke up laughing at Frankie's description of the kitchen version of tarring and feathering. "So is she in school with you?" I started to say something, but Frankie was much louder.

"Nope, new in town. Hey, like it's been nice but we had to work the whole damn shift since Brenda threw her tantrum, and we're tired." The nodded in sympathy. "Please make sure that everything is re-stocked, and leave a list of what we need for Ms. Carson." They gave a thumbs-up as they started scrounging for more food. Frankie led me to a door hidden by a curtain, unlocked it, and motioned me to follow.

The door lead to a staircase, and soon we were passing through stacks of pizza boxes and dry goods. There was another door at the end of the large storage room, which sat directly above the restaurant. "'Scuse the mess, but it's home sweet home." The place was huge, piled high with disorganized clutter.

"Ms. Carlson can't rent the place out 'cause of some zoning thing, but she can make it available to an employee. And rent is really high in this damn city, especially for us starving students." She sure didn't look starved to me. Just nicely rounded. I figured she outweighed me by at least thirty pounds.

She was staring at me. "You know, I've seen a pizza with less sauce than you're wearing."

I nodded unhappily "It's not like I had much choice. And these were my only decent clothes…" I looked at her clock. "Shit, what time do the busses stop running?"

She also looked at the clock, and groaned. "About half an hour ago."

I looked for a place to sit, but was afraid I would leave food anywhere I landed. She threw a couple of towels from a pile onto chairs, and made sitting motions. "How much will a taxi cost to get me back to the hostel, or can you maybe give me a ride?"

She looked amused. "I can't afford a car, and they really put the tax in taxi. Probably about fifteen bucks." I shook my head. What I was wearing was barely enough in the daytime, and I'd freeze if I tried to walk back at night.

"Is there a shelter or something near here I can stay in overnight?" She looked at me sort of funny.

"Why don't you stay here? There's a spare bedroom and clean sheets, and I'm bigger and stronger than you, so I doubt if you'll try anything." She saw the pained look on my face. "Hey, sorry, I guess you're really sensitive about your size." I nodded.

"I wish I looked like you." She gave me a weird look, and when I realized what I had said, I curled into a little ball and started to sob loudly. Then the shaking began. She grabbed a blanket, covered me, and held me until I was coherent.

"Let me guess, you're gay, that's why your father threw you out." I shook my head.

"Worse" She eyed me warily.

"You killed someone, or got your girlfriend pregnant?"

I started to laugh bitterly. "Either one would have made my father happy." Now she looked really puzzled.

"Well, then, tell me!" I looked at her sadly, and pulled away. I figured I had nothing to loose, and it wouldn't matter anyway when she threw me out on the street.

"Remember I said my Mom and Dad threw me out?" She nodded. "Well, they came home early, and found me wearing my sister's prom dress and heels."

Her eyes got wide, and I shrank back, expecting to get beaten up. When she threw her head back and started to laugh I felt sick. Soon she was rolling on the floor, laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. "You, you, you've got to be kidding!" she managed to choke out.

"Yeah, I'm a sick, perverted excuse for a person. I guess I'd better get going." I grabbed my thin jacket and started for the door.

"No, wait, stop. That's not it at all…" I looked back at her. It's just that I can't imagine why a guy would want to wear a fancy dress. Hell, I don't even like to get dressed up when I need to…" I stopped for a moment, and she got back up.

"I don't know why I did it. It, it just, well, called to me…" She started looking at me strangely.

"That doesn't make you a pervert, 'Specially not in this city." She smiled. "You should see some of the characters that come in from the university. Pink hair and black teeth. Now that's sick." I had to agree with her.

"So spend the night, just stay out of my underwear."

As what she said soaked in, I started to sputter and point at her. She made a valiant effort to emulate a stop light. We wound up sitting down to catch our breath. It definitely took the edge off the situation.

She showed me the bathroom, and told me to hand out my clothes so she could throw them in the washer. I needed a shower anyway, and followed her instructions. There was no regular shampoo, but she had stuff like my sister used, so I followed the directions. The conditioner smelled awfully flowery, and I hoped the aroma would dissipate before I had to go out.

When I finally dried off, I realized that I had nothing to wear. Wrapping myself in a towel, I stuck my head out and asked Frankie if she had something I could wear until my clothes were dry. Her, "Sure, just a minute," made me feel better. I was brushing my hair out when she tapped on the door, and handed me small pile.

I think she was waiting for my scream. The pile consisted of a pair of white cotton panties and a long cotton flannel nightgown. "That's not fair!" I hollered through the door, thoroughly embarrassed.

Her reply unfortunately made sense. "Hey, it's like I don't keep guys clothes around. Would you prefer a pink negligee?" I shut up quickly. I had the feeling she wasn't kidding. The panties were soft and light, and felt good on my clean skin. The flannel nightgown reminded me of something my grandmother used to wear. But it was warm and comfortable. I felt like a fool, but slowly opened the door.

"I hope you are satisfied. I feel ridiculous." It wasn't quite true. There was something about it that felt right. Which really felt wrong. She walked around me studiously, then seemed to shrug.

"My turn." Was all she said as she grabbed something and headed into the bathroom.

The apartment had more decent books than our high school library. I located an SF anthology, literature my father refused to let in the house, and was soon curled up on her couch between piles of clean laundry, reading. It was getting cool, so I drew the skirt of the nightgown under me and around my feet, like I'd seen my sister do. It was quite a while before I heard the bathroom door open.

Frankie came out dressed almost like me, carrying a hairbrush, and with an exasperated look on her face. Her hair was much longer than I had thought. "Hey, like could you put that down and see if you can get these damn tangles out…" I set the book down and she handed me the brush.

We wound up with her sitting facing away from me, and with me sitting there getting a lecture on how to de-tangle hair. Hers was naturally wavy, and I loved running the brush through it. When it was finally nearly dry, and tied back, she asked me if I wanted her to return the favor.

When I nodded, she smiled and soon I was enjoying the soft brushing. I didn't know having my hair brushed could be so erotic. I was embarrassed by my reaction, but the nightgown covered it. I hoped. She braided my hair and secured it with a band. "That'll keep it from tangling tonight."

A buzzing noise signaled the drier finishing. She returned with my clothes, shaking her head. "I was afraid the stains wouldn't come out." They were pretty sorry looking.

"They will work for cooking tomorrow." She looked at me and nodded.

She showed me the spare bedroom, moved things off the bed, and tossed me several blankets. "The heat turns itself down at midnight." This I understood. After she closed the door I curled up under the blankets, and promptly fell asleep.

I awoke to the smell of hot cocoa, and someone beating me with a pillow. Frankie was wide awake and laughing. "Hey, it's time to get up sleepyhead." I tried to crawl back under the blankets, but she was persistent.

Soon we were dressed, Frankie had redone my hair in a French braid 'for the health department", and I noted her outfit had more food stains than mine. My "advertising the menu?" made her belt me with a clean sock. When we got downstairs, it was a case of she led, and I followed. The Flintstones had done a marvelous job, so we had clean everything to start out. When Ms. Carlson came in to check on progress just before opening, we were munching a veggie omelet.

She seemed impressed, and without saying anything walked back up front. When the orders started flying we were too busy to talk. I picked things up quickly, and soon found I was faster than Frankie in making sandwiches and pizzas. I also found out that I was unable to move the big kettles, which was downright embarrassing. Especially when Frankie did it by herself. When she posed like a weight-lifter, I felt like hiding. I guess she saw how much it bothered me, and gave me a hug.

The last orders came back just before closing, and the Flintstones arrived early. Ms Carlson looked the place over, handed everyone, including me, a pay envelope, and told me that I could start on Monday, and to show up early to fill out employment paperwork. She walked out without saying another word. Frankie pounded me on the back so hard I thought she broke a rib "Congratulations, kid. Ready to go out and celebrate?"

I managed to straighten up, looked at her, and made snoring motions. "Party Pooper! But she was grinning, and grabbed a pizza she had made for us as we headed upstairs.

We had changed out of our food-covered clothes, and I was back, this time without complaint, to panties and nightgown. As we chowed on what she called "Cajun Shrimp Supreme" which to me meant wonderful and spicy, she again asked if I wanted to go out. I looked at her, and at myself, and asked "In what, one of your dresses?"

The look on her face made me start to slide around the table away from her. Her, "Hey, I didn't mean…" caused me to stop. And she gave me a silly smile. But I swear there was a Cheshire cat sitting on her shoulder.

The high point of the evening was when I checked the pay envelope, and found I had been paid as if I had worked all day Friday. Ms. Carlson had taken out taxes. But there was enough there to tide me over for at least a week. Frankie checked hers, and let out a whoop. "She gave me a fifty-dollar bonus! It's party time!" My look told her that tonight was not the night. "Okay, but were going out next week, or else." I did not want to contemplate either.

Sunday morning I realized I needed to get the rest of my clothes. This was followed by the realization that Frankie had not washed mine the night before. When I pointed this out, she just laughed, and told me she had an idea.

After we finished breakfast, we cleared out an area of her living room, and then she asked me to help her pull some boxes out of the storeroom. It took a while to dig down to the boxes she wanted. It didn't help that we were both in nightgowns. Soon we were dragging some shipping cases and three big foot-lockers into the apartment. She took one last check to make sure she had everything, and suggested we shower off the dust.

Shortly I found myself staring at a new batch of her clothes. The panties were by now familiar, but she had given me a set of exercise sweats, and some heavy socks. They were loose on me, but stayed up. She was soon clean, and wearing a pair of ski pants and a bulky sweater. She did my hair back into a pony-tail, and I helped her do the same with hers. When she handed me a pair of women's winter boots, and a decidedly feminine long coat, I tied to decline. She took me to the window and showed me her outside thermometer. I quit arguing.

It was nasty out, cold and windy, and felt like snow. The bus trip across town to the Hostel was downright boring. I didn't like the looks of things when I saw a bunch of fire trucks. It took me almost an hour to find out that there had been a small fire in the locker area, and that everything I owned was now charcoal. They said I could come back Monday and they would refund my locker fee.

I had left my paycheck back at Frankie's, so I did not even have enough cash to get new underwear. I wound up holding her and crying almost all the way back. I wondered when the next disaster would strike. We stopped in the kitchen, scrounged lunch makings, and headed upstairs. It was mid-afternoon when she decided to end my pity party.

"Ronnie, I like, really hate to burst your bubble, but you're making a mountain out of a little tiny anthill." I looked at her like she was nuts. She continued "You've got a job, a place to stay, some spending money, and plenty to eat. So what is the big deal?"

I pointed at the sweats. "And I've had to borrow the clothes I'm wearing, girl's clothes, and I'm too weak to do even women's work, and, and…" I started to cry again. "Maybe my father was right, I should be dead. Then I wouldn't be a burden on anyone." She held me until the tears and shaking stopped.

"Look," she finally said something "if it's that bad, will it hurt you to try something?" I looked at her. "I mean, well, like it won't matter what happens of you go off and kill yourself, right?" She was trying to sound forceful, but I felt a sharp tinge of fear in her voice.

I nodded. "So what are you going to do, call the nice people in their white coats and have me taken away?" I held out by hands like I was expecting handcuffs. She shook her head vigorously. "I just want you to promise me that you won't do anything like, well, kill yourself or run away, until Halloween." That was just a week away.

"As long as you promise not to call the police or have me hauled off to a padded cell either." She looked at me long and hard.

"I'll make that promise on one condition." I nodded slowly "You must agree to do everything I ask you to do, without arguing, at least too much, or the deal's off and I get to call the hospital." She paused. "And I promise not to hurt you."

I don't know why I agreed, but it flashed through my consciousness that at least for the next week I would not have to make the choice I didn't want to make. We shook hands, and she told me I needed to take a nap. I guess the strain showed. I buried myself in the blankets, and whimpered myself to sleep.

Frankie woke me sometime later. There were wonderful smells in the air, and my stomach reminded me I was hungry. I tried to get up, but she shook her head. "we will need to dress for dinner". I looked at her, and she handed me a bag of clothes. "If you need help, ask" was all she said as she closed the door.

The bag smelled a bit of mothballs. I got out of bed, stretched, and sat back down hard when I looked in the clothes. They were not my clothes. It was a complete ladies formal outfit, even to the heels. I wanted to scream at her for mocking me. I wanted to run away. But I also wanted to put them on so much it scared me. I finally forced myself to remember our agreement, and soon stood there, dressed, staring at myself in the mirror. I never heard the door open.

"Let me fix your hair…" Her words scared me so badly I jumped, and I spun to face her. She was dressed in a similar outfit. Wordlessly she turned me to face away from the mirror, and with brush and styling spray she started to work on my hair.

"Now for some makeup." I tried to move, but my feet had turned to lead. It felt strange to have someone work so intimately on my face. After she added lipstick, she told me not to move. I couldn't if I wanted to.

She pivoted my rigid form towards the mirror. "Ronald, meet Veronica." One look and I fainted in her arms.

I awoke with my head in her lap. She was smiling at me. "Want a second look?" Shaking, and with her help, I slowly managed to stand and face the mirror. A familiar stranger looked back at me. Gone was the weak, fragile little boy I had grown up with. Standing there was a slender young woman with a deathly pale complexion. The pallor made her huge eyes and sharp features stand out. We turned and examined ourselves in the mirror. Her legs were long and shapely, accentuated by the tall heels. She looked underfed, almost like a model. We reached out to touch each other, and met at the surface of the mirror.

I looked at Frankie, who was beaming. "What, how, where did, how did you know…" She put her finger on my lips, and motioned me towards the living room. Soon we were seated at a table she had found, facing each other in candlelight and listening to some soft music from the stereo. It was surreal. I felt I must be dreaming.

When I singed my finger on the fondue pot, I snapped back to reality. I sat back, feeling scared. "I shouldn't be liking this, it's wrong…"

Frankie gave me a stern look. "What's wrong about it? You looked like you were enjoying yourself."

"Boys don't wear dresses and makeup…" came out slowly.

She looked at me. "Says who?"

"I do". Then a little light dawned. "Well, that's what I was taught…"

"Bingo!" was her reply. So, does it feel good?

I hugged myself. "I've never felt this way before, it's like, well, it just is." I paused "But dammit, it's wrong. Wrong!" The war inside my head got louder, and I held my head to ease the pain.

Frankie managed to get me to my room, and undressed me. Once I had the familiar nightgown on, it seemed to relieve the pressure. She carefully led me back to the table. "At least try and eat some dinner. It's not poisoned." That got me to chuckle, and soon I was enjoying the food. She gave me something she said would help me sleep, and made sure I made a bathroom run before bed.

The next thing I felt was her shaking my covers, and telling me it was time to go to work. She had washed my clothes, and we headed downstairs.

Ms. Carlson came in by mid-morning, and had me fill out employment paperwork. She gave me a funny look when I said I didn't have any ID, but told me to fill everything out accurately. When I filled in the obligatory identification blocks on the worker's compensation form, her eyes bugged out. Instead of Veronica as a first name, I entered Ronald. And I checked the block marked "M". She looked at me carefully, and I mentally prepared to be thrown out on the street.

"Well, you sure put that one over on me, and I've been in this business for twenty some years. I thought you were a bit flat for a girl, but…"

I hung my head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause any trouble." I put down the pen and got up to leave.

Her, "Where do you think you're going?" stopped me.

"You want me to leave, right?" I looked her in the eyes.

Her startled expression surprised me. "Why should I want that? You're a good worker, and heaven knows I've had a lot stranger people than you working for me."

"But, but.. I'm too puny for a guy and I look like a girl and…" I sagged back into the chair.

"And I don't give a damn if you look like Marilyn Manson if you earn your pay and don't scare the customers." With that I could not argue. I finished filling out the paperwork, leaving blank the section on "next of kin". She didn't ask, and I wasn't volunteering.

It was a busy day, and when the afternoon shift arrived, we headed upstairs. I curled up with a book, and Frankie headed off to class.

Tuesday and Wednesday went quietly. I stayed in my room and read when Frankie was at school, and worked with her in the mornings. She was busy with homework after school, so I had a lot of free time. I caught up on my reading.

Thursday afternoon I was relaxing just after Frankie left for school, when I heard a pounding on the door. It turned out to be Ms. Carlson, with an exasperated expression on her face. "Ronnie, are you free this afternoon and evening?" There was a hint of desperation in her voice. I nodded.

"I need a great favor. Have you ever waited tables?" I nodded again. "Becky and Sandy called in, they're broken down in Duluth and can't make it to work, and that leaves me with only Tony till we close…" I knew what that meant. The three of them normally had to run to keep up.

Then I realized that I had nothing to wear. Her "Can you help?" made me feel really bad.

"I would, but see, the only clothes I have are what I am wearing.." I waived at my dirty, food-stained shirt and pants. Her look was inquisitive. "Everything I owned burned up in the fire Sunday at the youth hostel, and I haven't had enough money to go shopping." She nodded.

"Maybe you could wear one of Tony's…" She shook her head. Tony was twice my size. Suddenly she looked at me hard. "Wait. I've got an idea." She headed for the door. "Wash up. I'll be back in a moment." I wondered what she was thinking, but complied.

When she came pounding up the stairs, she handed me a big bag of stuff. "When Gina left, she didn't take her stuff with her. And I think you're the same size…"

I looked at her like she was nuts. The outfit was a short, almost French-maid design. "These are girl's clothes…"

Her, "So, You fooled me," was hard to follow. "Please? I really need the help…"

I guess I felt sorry for her, and nodded. "If they fit, I'll be down in a couple of minutes." She gave me a kiss and told me I'd do fine.

It took a minute to figure out what went where. I realized that I had to dress from the skin out to make it work, and some of the under-things were scary, all elastic and lace. I was glad that I never really needed to shave, another item that pissed off my father.

The result was unexpected. I thought I would look like a guy in girl's clothes. But the tight, one-piece body shaper had padded cups, and really reduced my waist. I put on the black, opaque seamed stockings, and the only shoes there, a pair of blocky two-inch heels. Finally I pulled on and buttoned the dress.

I found I was turning myself on, which HURT with everything stuffed away in the shaper. I also found out it made me walk with a swish. My father would have been pinching my butt. I shrugged, brushed out my hair, and throwing caution to the wind, tried some of Frankie's makeup. It came out too heavy, and the blood-red lipstick made me look a little like a vampire. I headed downstairs.

Tony almost dropped his tray when he saw me sashay in. Ms. Carlson was also waiting tables, and when she saw me her mouth dropped open. I turned bright red. She wordlessly handed me a small apron, which held the order pad and several pencils, and finally told me to take the south wing.

It didn't take long to forget how I was dressed. Except for the occasional whistle when I bent over. I quickly learned to bend some at the knees rather than only at the waist. We were busier than normal, and soon my head was spinning and my feet hurt.

It was about five that I was about to serve a large cheese canoneli to a group of businessmen when someone pinched my ass. Hard. I spun around and found myself face-to-chest with a guy in a suit, wearing a leer on his face. His "Nice Buns" comment caused me to lose it. I carefully, and forcefully, deposited the entire order in his face and, rubbing my tail, headed for the kitchen.

His cursing, mixed with the laughter from his associates, could be heard all the way back. Ms Carlson dashed in after me. She found me sitting on a chair, crying. "What the hell happened?" I looked up, made pinching motions at my backside, and went back to crying. She dashed back out. A minute later she came back and asked me to come out with her. She wiped my face with a napkin, and suggested I blow my nose. I must have looked scary with my red eyes.

We headed for the table where the gentleman I had decorated was carefully cleaning up the floor. He turned to me, his face really red, and apologized profusely for his behavior. I think that the four others standing there like wardens might have something to do with it. He then reached in his wallet and handed me a one-hundred dollar bill. One of his buddies jabbed him, hard. He quickly pulled out a second one. He managed to mumble a "Sorry, miss" that sounded like really sour grapes. His buddies smiled, and than handed him the check. I noticed Ms. Carlson had added a fifteen percent tip.

Ms. Carlson's, "Now get back to work," broke through the fog, and I continued to work, carefully watching my backside. Tony's jovial, "I wonder if I can get the ladies to pinch me like that," got him nailed with a whole-wheat roll. Soon I quit watching my rear.

It was almost closing time, and we were running out of customers when Frankie came in. She walked right past me, stopped, turned, and stared. My muttered "Don't even think about it" made her cover her mouth and run, giggling, to the kitchen. If I'd had another spare roll she would have been history.

I helped Tony and Ms. Carlson bus tables and close up the front. By the time I was finished, I was too tired to eat much, and simply staggered up to Frankie's apartment. She was sitting on the couch, waiting for me.

"I thought you didn't want to be a girl?"

I plopped down on a chair, automatically sweeping the tiny skirt underneath me. "Ms. Carlson came up this afternoon and begged for my help, and the only thing she could find for me to wear was this….." I paused, "And then it got busy and I just forgot, until that guy pinched me.."

"Pinched you?" She sounded incredulous

"Yeah, hard, right here." I hopped up, and bent over, pointing to the spot on my panties where I was sure there was a bruise. I flipped my skirt back down. "And I dumped his dinner all over him, and ran back to the kitchen, and…."

Frankie was staring at me wide eyed. "He tipped you how much?"

I dug into the two bulging pockets of the apron into which I had been mindlessly stuffing tips. When I emptied them on the table, I started to shake. A quick glance told me that the two hundred dollars was only a part of the total. I waived the two big bills at her, then did a quick count. Not including all the tips that were paid with checks or credit cards, I had made almost six hundred dollars in one afternoon.

Frankie was staring at me. "And all you did was wait tables and wag your bottom?"

"I did not wag my bottom!" I paused "At least not intentionally, but this outfit makes me walk funny…." She told me to demonstrate.

"If I were a guy, I'd be drooling. So you don't have any idea how sexy you are?" I shook my head. "Let me set up a couple of mirrors so you can really look at yourself." She puttered around, pulling out some scratched wall mirrors from the storeroom she said used to be part of the décor downstairs. "Now keep your head up, and move like you are waiting tables."

I watched as slim, sensuous woman with an incredible swing in her hips gracefully wagged her bottom as she moved, and when she bent, always flipped her skirt up to give a shot of her tight, satin-covered backside and the tops of her stockings. I sagged into a chair. "Oh my God, I looked like I was…"

"Yeah, one hot piece of very female flesh, with a for-rent sign tattooed on your very cute butt.. I bet there were a hundred guys that walked out of here with a stiff leg. Hell, I bet there were a couple of dozen women with wet panties too." She looked at me. "And I bet you were enjoying it."

I shook my head. "I never noticed. It got so busy I forgot how I was dressed, only that me feet were killing me." I suddenly felt awful, realizing I was becoming more like a girl every day, and ran to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I spent a long time retching my lunch and dinner into the commode. I finally cleaned up, stripped, and took a shower.

When I remembered that I had no clean clothes, I shrugged, and wrapped myself in a towel. Frankie was waiting for me, looking concerned. "You okay?" I shook my head. "Want to talk?"

"I just want to die." She jumped up, and landed a roundhouse slap that spun me around, causing my towel to fall off. I landed on my butt, and put my hands over my face, sobbing from the pain and embarrassment.

She was shrieking "Don't you ever hurt yourself. You are a wonderful person, a good friend, and I think I love you..." She knelt down, picked me up, and carried me to her bedroom, crying all the way. She dressed me like a big doll, in panties and one of her nightgowns. I curled up in a ball on the bed. A few minutes later she uncurled me, pushed me under the covers, and slid in beside me.

I tried to move away, but she wrapped her arms and legs around me, kissed me, and told me that I was going nowhere. All I could do was whimper, but her warmth and the strain of the day took their toll, and soon I was sound asleep, my face against hers.

I woke the next morning to Frankie slowly shaking me. "Hey, we've got work this morning." I tried to burrow back under the covers. I heard her leave and come back. "Last call!" I pulled the blankets tighter around me. She hopped in next to me, and moment later I launched myself out of the bed as she pressed an ice cube against my bottom.

"Hey, unfair!" I was standing in front of her, hands on my hips. She giggled.

"You look just like my sister when I used a snowball to get her up." She suddenly stiffened, and looked unhappy. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that…"

I was shaking my head. It was getting crazier each day. But today was Halloween, and my promise to her would end…

I had to wear some of her clothes for work, because mine never got washed. I felt absolutely ridiculous in stretch pants with stirrups, and a frilly tank top. Even if it was comfortable. We were unusually busy, and when Frankie had to leave for class, I stayed in the kitchen for another hour to help out.

When I got upstairs, I knew I needed space, to get away from Frankie. But I did not have anything warm enough to wear. Or did I?

I quickly rummaged through the trunk and boxes, and then Frankie's closets. In the back of my mind something was saying "one last time, enjoy it one last time…"

I stared at her in the mirror. She was wearing a thick, warm peasant blouse and two layers of heavy ankle-length skirts. Her hair was thick and full, in decadent disarray. Her high-heeled winter boots made her mince her walk, a walk already enhanced by the tight-fitting body shaper. Even with the coat on, she looked ready to party.

I sighed, and smiled to myself. The note was already on her table. Along with five hundred dollars in cash.

"Frankie, I have borrowed some of your stuff. It probably won't be useable after tonight, so I hope this is enough to cover it all. Ms. Carlson owes me week's salary, plus the tips from Thursday. You can have them, too, as a present for all you have done for me. You are a terrific person, Frankie, and have been the brightest part of my short life. When you said you thought you loved me, I knew I had to leave. You deserve far better than me. And won't admit it to yourself. So I have chosen to leave, before I bring more hurt into your life.

"I would appreciate if you passed my thanks on to Ms. Carlson and Tony. Heck, to the Flintstones too.

I love you, Frankie. With all my heart and soul. But I cannot live like the abomination I am, a pitiful excuse for a man, and a travesty of a woman. Keep only kind memories.

Ronnie."

I carefully locked up the apartment, and headed out to the street by the back door. It was nearing five, and traffic was at a standstill. From my wanderings the week before, I knew that there were a couple of tall bridges crossing the river to St. Paul. Tall enough for what I needed. I figured it was about ten miles, which would give me plenty of time to reflect on what little had been good in my life.

The wind was cutting, and even with all the layers of clothes I was getting chilled. Freezing to death was not my plan. I wanted quick and certain. So considerably more than half-way there I stopped at a nice restaurant, and ordered what I figured would be my last meal. I was not really hungry, but the warmth and hot tea helped. It was after eight when I hit the street again. It had started to snow.

Fitting, I thought. Growing up in a cold family to die a cold death. I saw the outline of a bridge far ahead of me. The streets were filled with trick-or-treaters and party goers, who seemed happy to ignore me. I stopped at a light just before the bridge access, and when it changed started to cross. I heard the impact, feeling pain as I was thrown through the air, and lost consciousness as I hit something hard.

I awoke to Frankie's voice, with someone holding my hand. I tried to move, but I was rigidly held in place,. I could not even open my eyes. It felt like I was in some sort of glue. I wanted to panic, but it just wouldn't happen. My mind registered a generally numb feeling, and I realized I was doped up, like when they pulled my wisdom teeth, but more so. Frankie's voice again caught my attention.

"If you can understand me, squeeze my hand." I squeezed, gently, realizing with a shock how weak I was. "Squeeze once for no, and twice for yes, is that possible?" I squeezed twice.

I could hear her exhale sharply. I heard another, calm male voice. "So far, so good". The voice then addressed me. "Ronnie, this is Doctor Martin, can you understand what I am saying?" Two squeezes. "You were hit by a car and have been unconscious for a long time. I need to ask you some questions, is that okay?" I began to remember what had happened. I finally squeezed twice.

"Can you wiggle your toes?" Instead of squeezing I wiggled them. I heard another voice saying, "Thank god…" in the background. "Can you feel this?" I felt a sharp prick on my big toe. Two quick squeezes. "Do your feet or legs feel numb?" I thought about it, and realized they were no number than the rest of me. One squeeze. That's when the whooping and hollering started.

Frankie whispered in my ear "Your back was broken is several places. We were afraid you would never walk again…" Now I knew why I felt like a mummy. I squeezed her hand twice. Several dozen questions later they gave me a rundown on my current condition. I had been out for weeks. In addition to the back injuries, they had had to removed my lower ribs. About the only thing that hadn't been broken was my skull, which Frankie attributed to my hard head. I tried to make a fuzzy mental note to hit her when I recovered. They told me it would be a few more days before they could unwrap my face so I could start on real food, and talk. I felt something cool enter one of the tubes in my arm.

I awoke again the next day, this time to the doctor's voice. More questions, a warning that they were going to reduce the pain medications, and instructions on how to use the call button they taped to my left hand.

Three days later I was a bit uncomfortable, but far more coherent than before. They warned me it would hurt, but it was mostly annoying as they slowly unbandaged my head and face. "Don't open your eyes!" And they gradually sponged off layers of dead stuff, and I felt them checking me over. A second washing, and I could tell through my eyelids they had turned down the lights.

"Go ahead and open them," came from Frankie. Everything was blurry, and the nurse, I think, washed my eyes out with something that didn't sting. When I tried focusing again, Frankie's face was all I could see. She looked exhausted, but was smiling. The doctor examined my face and eyes, smiled, and told me that if I wouldn't mind, they wanted to remove the tube in my throat so I could start eating and talking. I could not nod, but squeezed Frankie's hand twice. When I woke up again, my mouth felt like old socks, and my throat hurt. But it felt soo… good to be able to croak out "I'm hungry".

I was quickly informed that until my throat healed, it was baby food. It still tasted good. Frankie claimed feeding rights. By the next day I could carry on a short conversation, although my voice sounded really funny. They refused to let me look in a mirror, saying that the bruising had not yet gone away. I had a bad feeling, but they brushed me off.

A day later another doctor, a quiet older woman, came in and started asking me questions about myself. I had poured out most of my history when I realized she was leading me on. "Hey wait a minute, just what kind of doctor are you?" She chuckled.

"Took you a while. I'm a psychiatrist who specializes in helping people who have been in terrible accidents. People like you."

Something in the back of my mind clicked. "What did Frankie tell you about me?"

Her, "Everything," caused me to start crying. She carefully wiped off the tears, and helped me blow my nose. "Everything, like the note you left her saying you were planning on committing suicide." She paused "And about why your father threw you out of his house." Another pause. "And why she cared so much about you that she nearly froze to death trying to find you that night, and has quit school to spend the last several weeks at your side in the hospital while they tried to put you back together." That started the tears again, and finally she called the nurse, who against my protestations gave me a shot. I drifted quickly off to sleep.

Frankie was there the next day. I ragged on her about quitting school, and she pointed out it was her choice, not mine. That shut me up quickly. I suddenly wondered who was paying for all this. Her, "The insurance company of the drunk that hit you," made me relax. She then told me that she was the one who requested a psychiatrist to talk to me, and threatened to leave if I didn't agree to cooperate with her. I told her I would agree if she went back to school in January. She was pissed, but I stuck to my position, and she finally agreed.

It was early the next week, and several sessions later that they announced I was ready to be unwrapped, and start on the road to recovery. It was a lot like peeling dead leaves off a cabbage. When they finished, I was still strapped to a metal and plastic frame. I quickly found out that the removal of built-up dead skin HURT. They wound up sedating me until they were finished. Then there was physical therapy. OUCH. They must have originated the term, "No pain, no gain." Or studied the inquisition in depth.

When the psychiatrist asked if she could start me on some medications that would help me deal with my problems, I was too disgusted with myself, and life, to argue, and she had me sign a bunch of papers. That got me a series of shots in my butt.

I was now able to look in a mirror. Aside from being gaunt, it seemed my face was, well, softer. And my nose was turned up at the tip. I looked more like a girl than before. But it did not seem to matter as much.

By mid-February I was itching, literally, to get up and around on my own. For some reason my nipples had swollen up and were so sensitive they had to wrap me in a soft towel before rolling me over. The framework had been replaced by a rigid aluminum and plastic brace that kept everything aligned, and had an attached neck brace to keep me from moving my head. It was about the first of March when they wheeled me back to my room after fitting me with a new, more streamlined, and much tighter brace, and I found Frankie and all of the doctors waiting for me.

When they said I was ready to go home I started to cry, mumbling I had no home. Frankie explained. "Our home, Ronnie."

I knew she had moved, but this surprised me. "But how…"

She smiled. "We took up a collection." Further inquires were met with silence. Then the surgeon spoke up.

"That was the good news. Now for the bad news. Frankie hugged me.

"Go ahead."

"In simple terms, we have done everything medically possible to repair the damage from the accident. The scars on your face and upper chest are well hidden. But we cannot fix the muscles in your back and abdomen that were so badly mangled. That is why the special brace. It can be removed, with help, to bathe if you are already lying flat, but other than that you must wear it or risk paralyzing yourself."

"Frankie, I can't do this to you." Frankie just looked defiant.

"You can't stop me."

"What about being able to work?" I was afraid of being a burden on anyone. The doctor looked at his colleagues.

"Once you have fully healed, which will take at least six months, and probably longer, you will be able to do anything that the brace will allow. But nothing strenuous." He paused. "I would recommend going back to school and getting a professional degree. Even if the insurance company balks at paying for it, the state will cover most of it as a part of a rehabilitation program."

I nodded, glad that I was finally able to move my head a little. What followed was a long litany of do's and don'ts so I would heal as quickly as possible. I groaned when they mentioned daily physical therapy, but Frankie giggled and said they had taught her what to make me do.

I was discharged the next day. I still had a checkup every two weeks, and met with my psychiatrist weekly. I guess she was doing me a lot of good, because when I was finally ready to venture out of the house in something other than pajamas for my regular visit to the hospital, Frankie made me wear a long skirt and blouse. It seemed to fit too well, and I attributed it to the redistribution of fat caused by the corset. I was in need of a bra, and my hips and bottom were filling out, which seemed to make Frankie happy, and the doctors were brushing it off as a side effect of all the surgery and medications.

It was June when the psychiatrist asked both of use to come in. She asked Frankie how I was doing, and she said the doctors were giving me a clean bill of health. I was wearing a fitted dress that showed off my medically corseted figure nicely. I just wished the corset wasn't so lumpy. She then began…

"Ronnie, back in January when I first met you, you were terrified about your need to wear women's clothes." I nodded. We had been over this too many times. "I want you to read this." She handed me two sheets of paper.

I was crying like a little kid when I finished, and Frankie was hugging me. "We decided that telling you about the diagnosis would harm your physical recovery. So we, that is, myself, Frankie and your doctors, agreed it was best to treat you like it was a part of the accident." I managed to nod. "Remember when I told you I was going to give you some medications to help you feel better?" I nodded again.

Frankie spoke up. "Those were female hormones. That's why you are growing those lovely breasts and your hips and bottom are filling out." I looked at her in amazement.

Suddenly I felt very scared "But that means I can't, we can't…" I collected my thoughts "have children". Frankie's eyebrows shot up, and she hugged me so hard it hurt, even through my armor.

My doc spoke up "We have been monitoring the dosage very carefully, and I can assure you that you are fully capable of fathering children if that is what you want." Frankie gave me an "I love you" smile.

Frankie added "Besides, a guy who wears skirts and a corset gets lots of funny looks. And I bet that you are a lot happier as a girl anyway." All I could do was nod.

A little over six months later, I had my name formally changed to Ronnie and, after passing a physical with flying colors, got a new driver's license. The next June, we were married in a quiet ceremony at Ms. Carlson's restaurant. She did not bat an eye when she saw us wearing matching gowns.

Last year Frankie completed her degree in marketing, and is now working for a public relations firm. I'm back in school, studying social work, and working part-time in a psychologist's office as his receptionist.

Just over a year ago Frankie and I were shopping in Toronto at an "alternative" lifestyles place. They were one of the few stores that had clothes small enough in the waist for me. Then my back went into spasm. It had happened before, and the cure was to head for the nearest hospital and spend some time in traction, or take a huge dose of muscle relaxants. Or worse, both. The proprietor wanted to know if he could help. I was whimpering in pain, and Frankie was a bit short tempered. "Yeah, if you've got a torture rack."

When he showed her the back room, she almost screamed. Minutes later I was down to corset and panties, strapped to a wooden frame by Tom, the owner, and a muscular guy slightly smaller than a mountain who was his "boy". Once I was firmly secured, they started adding heavy weights to the pulley-and-rope contraption that connected to where my arms were secured. Several pops, crunches, and screams later I stopped hurting, and told them it was enough weight. The leather and old wood smell was much more, well, erotic than a hospital ortho ward. So now I had a big bulge in my panties despite the hormones. I was horny as hell, and embarrassed no end. And totally unable to move to cover myself.

They were smiling and pointing, and Frankie was looking really ragged. She came over to me and tried to cover my midsection. "'Scuse me ma'am, but we get a lot of guys that dress that way here, and most of them have the same reaction." She looked at them in disbelief. "M'boy here would love to be on that rack right now." The huge guy nodded, smiling. "But I think he would want to play a lot rougher." Tom walked over to a rack, and pulled out a small whip. The big guy was bulging below the belt. Frankie turned pale.

I got another cramp, and whimpered. The big guy came over and examined me almost clinically, moving a protective Frankie out of the way like she was a mannequin. "Do they usually have to massage out the cramps, or use ultrasound or diathermy?" I looked at him in surprise. He smiled. "I'm also a paramedic and licensed massage therapist."

I started to spasm again, and mumbled "massage". He quickly released the catches and straps on the corset. He looked with shock at my scars and back, and slowly ran his fingers along my spine until he found the remains of the offending muscles. He added another weight, and then pulled a small jar off one of their shelves. Soon I was out of pain and enjoying the best back-massage I had ever experienced. The stuff from the jar felt cold, then burned, and finally left a lingering warmth. I was also hard as a rock.

When he finished, he looked at the bulge, and Frankie, and grinned. "She's all warmed up for you, ma'am". She flushed almost neon red. Tom pulled a large feather-and-leather something off a rack. It looked like a combination of carpet beater and furniture duster. "Try it on her, just avoid her face. I bet she won't last five minutes. Frankie looked at him like he was insane. He shrugged, and handed the feathery thing to the big guy.

I never thought that being beaten with something could hurt so good. But I managed to hold on for at least seven minutes before a different type of spasm eliminated my bulge problem, and left me with soggy panties. Frankie was watching with her eyes wide, and sort of freaking where she stood. They wrapped a blanket around me, and I hung there quietly, feeling relaxed in ways I had never expected.

Tom drew Frankie and his "boy' out of my vision, and I heard them talking. When they came back, Frankie was smiling. Soon Tom was measuring me from neck to knees just like the people at the hospital when they were fitting my corset. When they finished, they re-wrapped me in my armor, and removed the weights. Frankie helped me get dressed, and I asked how much we owed. Tom looked at Frankie "Considering how much she just bought here, it was on the house." Frankie had a cat-and-canary grin.

On the way back she refused to tell me what she had purchased, but did say we would have to go back in about a month to try on some clothes.

It was more like six weeks later when we returned. I found myself being re-fastened to the rack, and blushed all the way to my toes when Frankie snipped off my panties. She applied an ice cube to my nether regions, which made everything try to retreat inside, and lovingly fitted me into a tight-fitting pair of soft-leather underwear. Tom and the big guy, who's name was Roger, came out and wrapped a blindfold around my head. They then removed my corset, and I felt something a soft something being wrapped around me.

It was followed by an incredibly stiff, leather-smelling garment, which immediately registered "corset". Soon I was laced more tightly than I had ever thought possible. When they removed the blindfold, I gasped. The corset was black leather, and gave me an absolutely stunning figure. I realized that part of the image was because this corset was much less bulky than the medical one. They carefully released the tension, and checked to make sure it provided the needed support.

It felt wonderful, so light, and looked, well, fashionable. Roger soon laced another piece to the back, and wrapped a soft leather collar around my neck. I found it held my head and neck stiff and proper. They then added a tight leather vest, cut low, and a long kid-leather skirt. When the took me to a mirror, I loved the way it looked and felt. I tried to get aroused, and found out it was a really bad idea in the leather undies. The term "chastity belt" came to mind.

We drove all the way back with me dressed up, They had loaded a bunch of stuff in the trunk for Frankie, and told her that her delivery would be the next weekend. She still refused to divulge what she had bought.

By mid-week I decided to donate the medical corset to sleeping and bathing. Even with the heavy steel boning, my new corset felt and fit better, and I could wear it under regular clothes without all sorts of unwanted bulges. Even the collar felt good, and made me stand really straight. There was only one catch, which turned out to be intentional. I could not reach any of the fasteners.

Saturday a delivery truck arrived, and the driver put a large crate in the basement at Frankie's direction. I noticed that there was also a locked chest I had not seen before. When she unbolted the cover from the crate, I started to chuckle, and gave her a big squeeze. It was a fancier version of the rack from the store. She then unlocked the chest, and pulled out a matching corset, in her size Soon she realized what 'tight' meant. I made her wear the collar and corset all night. Seems she could not reach the fasteners while wearing the handcuffs I found in the chest…

And that is how I wound up sitting here like this today. This is a newer corset, complete with neck brace and built-in chastity belt, er, I mean underwear. I have decided on staying at my present eighteen inch waist, which the doctors say is fine given my muscle damage. The hardware and locks are real.

Frankie should be arriving any time. She won't be late, because she is as tight-laced as I am. And at least as horny. Tom sold me a couple of battery-operated toys that she loves to hate. But this is the first time she's had to wear them in public. All day, too. Seems they also sold me this pair of women's underwear that has a hidden lock. We'll flip a coin to see who gets the leash, and who wears the handcuffs. I hope I lose.

Finis

 

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