Ghost Writer        by: Circe               circe@grlmail.com

Part One

Since I was little I always wanted to be a writer. One of my earliest memories are of writing a huge (for me at the time) five-page epic story of a Prince and a Princess. I loved reading about people, and so I wrote about people. When I was eight I started a journal, just observing the people I saw every day; my mother, my father, my sister, my schoolteacher.

I think when puberty hit me and hormones began coursing through my body that the tone of my stories changed slightly. There were more girls in them for a start, and the male hero (which their invariably was) was replaced by a female character. Women fascinated me. Since I had an older sister I had slight access to this arcane world. I could observe her (to a degree) going about her daily life; how she ate her cornflakes, how much make up she would wear depending on who was visiting her, who she would scamper up to her bedroom and change her clothes for and so on. Obviously I didn’t have full rights to her world - her bedroom was strictly "off limits." I watched her, however, with a due sense of wonder as she changed from a girl into a woman, and how her mind changed with it and I suppose it was with a sense of curiosity that whenever she was not in the house I took every opportunity to advance my research. Subsequently I tentatively began to include, what I thought were realistic portrayals, of what went on behind these closed doors, in my stories. Having access, of sorts, to her world of lacy undergarments (for those are what I chiefly found fascinating) and different clothing I began to write about it, and the body I saw developing underneath which would, of course, require these clothes.

I became very popular in high school. With girls as well as boys. I began to sell the stories I wrote and, as my creative confidence grew, write long novels which I would serialise. My own sister was my most regular customer, and she never once questioned me on where I got most of my knowledge.

It was fate I suppose that took me to college as an English Major. There I actually had a few relationships with girls (young women, I suppose) and discovered sex - which obviously I had written about before, and, as is customary, got most of the details wrong. My writing became more mature, and less childish, as I read more and more literature and became influenced by it. It was in my final year that I was first published, in a women’s magazine.

I had been sending stories religiously to whatever magazines I could find since late high school, with little or no success. Most hadn’t even bothered with a "Thank you" note in reply. The story that was published however was one of my favourites. It was a romance about two high school sweethearts who had fallen in love at school, but never told each other. They had graduated and gone to separate colleges and found separate partners, and gone to separate states and found different jobs; the woman even got married. It was by complete chance that they met again, on a eight hour plane journey to Europe, and so on and so forth. Yes, I realise its not exactly original, but the magazine liked my characterisations (I can only hope; it may have been the mile-high love scene) and decided to publish it. I was thrilled, and knew that writing was to be my vocation.

If I was enthusiastic before, I was frenzied now as I tweaked my existing stories and wrote new ones by the bucket load to submit to magazines. Every so often I would get something published, but more often that not I would get a rejection. Then, an idea hit me. My then girlfriend was a beautiful girl called Nicola Parker; but she liked to be called Nick. She was horrified one morning when she received a free copy of a cheep porno magazine because, she later found out, she was down as a male on their market research form - Nick, you see. The company apologised, but had assumed that she would like the magazine, based on her gender. I think you could see where I was heading.

I was christened Andrew Thomas Kennedy, but had always preferred to be called Tom rather than Andrew. After a fun evening spent with my girlfriend and various baby books, Andrea Thomson was born. To be honest it wasn’t much of a cataclysmic event, as she only existed on paper, but if I had know where this simple and fun evening would have led me, I think I would have had to had thought a little harder about it.

With my new pseudonym under my arm, so to speak, I began re-submitting old stories, and writing new ones - conscious of the fact that I was now supposed to be writing from a woman’s perspective. I would be exaggerating to say that I was instantly published, but the acceptances became more and more frequent and peaked in the offer of a job. On reflection, my writing was getting better and better too, as I worked and reworked the things I had written by trying to write from what I thought was a "female perspective." It was entirely possible that the reason I was getting published now was simply that my writing was better! However, I didn’t stop to think about that, I simply put two and two together - that when magazines thought I was a female Romance writer I was published.

I graduated that summer, and took the job - a freelance writer for a romance novels company (sort of like Mills and Boon). I didn’t have to lie, I simply told the truth: that I had created a pseudonym to get published in what I saw as an all-female field. My publisher, a delightful middle-aged woman by the name of Suzanne Green, found this whole charade deeply amusing, and took great delight in introducing me as "Andrea" at launching parties and jokingly saying how great I’d look in a little black dress. I took it all in my stride.

After working for ********* for four years - churning out Romance novels of an almost formulaic quality - I received my first piece of fan mail. Actually, this is inaccurate. I received my first fan mail sack. Without really caring about how many copies I had sold (I was paid the same wage anyway) I was rather delighted to find out that I was one of the top three sellers in the Romance novel genre. I had finally found something I was good at, and I made sure I replied to each and every letter individually (taking great care to autograph each one "Andrea."). I had been experimenting with my writing by trying to mix formulaic Romance stuff (boy meets girl, the lose touch, girl gets pregnant, tall dark stranger enters and takes care of child etc) with a more literary style - it looked like it was working. Suzanne approached me shortly after the fan-mail episode and took me to one side.

"Tom, we need a photo."

I looked at her blankly for a moment, looked down at my desk and rummaged around

for the dust-jacket folder she had given me the day before.

She held up her hand." No. No. I mean for you! You’re our best selling author, Tom."

"Well, um. thanks." I smiled.

She looked at me for a moment, and shook her head. "Success never sat well with you."

She grinned. "Seriously, we need a photo of Andrea for a promotion."

My face fell. I knew exactly what she meant. The company were in the habit of recruiting local models and actresses to provide author photographs for the less attractive members of the publishing house. Oh well, what would it matter: they were my words that were being read, even if the readers were thinking of someone else.

Suzanne caught my expression and put a hand on my shoulder. "Hey, you don’t have to do this forever. When you ever want a straight writing job I’ll put in a good word for you Tom." I nodded. "Someone from the agency is coming over this afternoon at three. Meet me in my office."

She turned on her heel and left, leaving me with a somewhat melancholy expression on my face. I was quite happy doing what I was doing, except I didn’t get any recognition for it, and now I had to choose the face that would stick in the minds of my readers everywhere. I was going to make sure then that she would be as much like me as possible. This turned out to be a very big mistake.

Her name was Rebecca McCay, and she was beautiful. I had been thumbing through the various portfolios for over three hours when I spotted her. She had long blonde hair, a small nose, deep green eyes, high perfect cheekbones and a neck of grace and beauty. She also looked, to be fair, completely vacant. However, she had the look I was going for, and although Suzanne thought there was a vague similarity I couldn’t see it. Not until I turned the page and saw her laugh. At least, I assume she was laughing, but I could see all her teeth. Her eyes sparkled in the photograph, and I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I recognised the sparkle; I had seen it in the mirror often enough. With her eyes and mine in common (even though they were different colours - mine are a deep blue) I started examining her for other similarities. Her nose was similar to mine, although hers was more defined; my chin (which now sported a goatee beard) was an exact copy of hers - elivish and narrow - but with my facial hair it was less obvious. I turned the page. This girl (who couldn’t have been more than eighteen in the photo) who I had never met but felt drawn to, stood before me naked. It was artfully done, of course, (which meant it was in black and white) but she was there naked none the less, her hands behind her head, arms raised, legs apart in a striking pose.

I was on my third examination of her belly button when I was aware that there was a still silence in the room. I glanced up and smiled at Suzanne, who was looking at me in a slightly motherly fashion.

"I take it that’s her then?" she asked, a slight smile playing over her lips.

I laughed, nervously. "Yeah. She’s perfect." I said. I recall that phrase completely.

I was dismissed and my publisher and the model agent began a long conversation, which was not concluded when I left for the evening three hours later.

That night I could think of nothing else than Rebecca. The photograph of her, naked, stuck in my mind. She was perfect. She was beautiful. She was me. I’m not quite sure how my mental processes worked that evening (as I have already said, I tend to overlook the obvious) but I spent most of the night imagining what it was like to be her; how she would think, act, dress, be treated. I have had a few girlfriends in my time, but no serious relationships. In fact the only girl who has stuck with me for any length of time is my sister, who I see regularly. So, I was no stranger to the inner workings of the female mind. The last thing I remember about that evening, despite getting completely drunk on Gin, was masturbating myself to sleep with one definite image in my intoxicated head. I dreamt of her too (not for the last time). I watched as she posed for the photograph, as she stripped off her blue print summer dress to reveal her perfect breasts encased in a satin white brassiere, as she delicately slid her panties down her smooth long legs, as she unhooked her bra, and as she took up the pose, proudly displaying her round, full, high breasts, the patch of blonde fur between her legs and, of course, her belly button. She turned towards the camera, and blew a kiss; her long luxurious blonde hair framing her face wonderfully as the camera flash made lightning bolts in the background. I was suddenly aware, in the dream, that she saw me. Her poses became more and more risqu‚, as she became conscious of her body; playing with and cupping her breasts, caressing her soft smooth flesh, running her delicate fingers over her wide hips and behind, and eventually masturbating in front of the camera. Once she had reached orgasm several times, she turned, and looked directly at me, smiled, and looked down. I felt myself look down also, and saw, proudly hanging from my chest, the most wonderful pair of breasts I had ever seen. I looked up again, and saw Rebecca look up. I brought a hand up to my face, she brought a slim, expertly manicured hand to hers. I realised I was looking in a mirror.

I found out from Suzanne the next day that I was to go with her to a photo shoot the following day and pick out the "look" that Rebecca, as Andrea, was going for. There were butterflies in my stomach all day as we flicked through a catalogue together picking outfits for this intelligent and feminine author to wear on her dust jacket. All I could think about was my dream. We eventually decided on a couple of looks, from businesswoman and fashion girl at home to bookworm. To try and make her look more intelligent (an awful thing to say, I’m sorry) we decided to die her hair auburn, give her a pair of very thin glasses (I wore contacts) and photograph her in front of a library - in the vain hope that because she is sitting in a library, she must be well read.

I met Rebecca the next day at the photo shoot. She was having make up applied when I arrived. She looked startling. Her hair had already been dyed and styled into a high, off the face look, which made her face look even more attractive. The other startling thing I noticed was that she was in her underwear. Like any red blooded male I tried to get as many covert glances as I could, but like every sensitive ponytail guy (I’ve had it since college) I tried to look at her eyes. It transpired that she had read my stories and was honoured to pose as me for them. She laughed when she told me that she had found out I was a man. All the while I watched her round breasts rise and fall in the black underwire bra she wore, trying to catch a sneaky glance at her nipples. We talked for a good ten minutes as the last of her makeup was applied, and I watched with genuine interest and surprise as she stood up, adjusted her underwear, and slipped on a pair of gold rimmed glasses. She looked amazing. She smiled at me and walked off to a dressing room. I turned and found Suzanne starring at me.

"She’s very pretty." She said, fighting back an obvious smile.

I cleared my throat. "Yes, she is. She’s perfect."

The photo shoot went very well. The outfits we had picked out looked fantastic on her and she posed and did her best to look literate. At the end of it we kept about twenty different pictures, paid the girl and said our goodbyes. I thought that was the last I would ever see of her in the flesh.

The next book I published, which Suzanne said was my best ever, we put one of the dust jacket photographs on. I received a sack of fan mail. Each day. The tone had changed now. Instead of people (mainly women) saying how much they loved the book, I now got more letter from men asking for dates, marriage, sex and a whole host of other things I didn’t even want to think about.

About ten months later, my world changed. I received a letter from MBC studios. They wanted Andrea as a guest on a talk show. They were assembling a panel of guests to talk about literature, of all things, and wanted me there. I panicked. There was no way we could use the model. This was not the first time something like this had happened. Suzanne came to me every once in a while and asked told me that another bookshop chain had asked for a signing tour - which we always politely refused. Things were different now. Over the course of the last year, Suzanne (who owned the publishing house) had been moving out of the Romance novel industry, taking on more "serious" writing. I was the only member of her original group she had retained, and I found my books on the "Literary Fiction" shelves instead of the "Romance" section. It would be seen as very bad form for the star author of a publishing house to refuse this kind of publicity.

I was deeply thinking about this when I read the morning paper the next day, a Saturday. There was a literary supplement, and a two page article about me! It showed a variety of the photographs from the photo shoot and had a very interesting article about Andrea Thomson. - the "Ghost Writer." It talked about my publicity machine of "absenteeism" and how by showing tantalising photographs, but never publicly appearing, I was more popular that I should be.

I was in a state of shock when I phoned Suzanne. She told me that she hadn’t authorised the article, but that it showed that something had to be done. I told her I had no idea what. I must have sounded really distraught on the phone because, half an hour later, she arrived at my front door.

"I quit Suz, I cant do this any more." I started. She slapped me across the face, hard.

"Don’t be a bloody fool." I stared at her. This was the first time ever she had hit me. "We can sort this out. Have faith." She reached into her bag and produced a large bottle of Gin and a ring binder portfolio. I was not surprised when I saw it was the results of the photo shoot with Rebecca. She poured me a drink.

"I called Rebecca."

"You what?!" I almost spat the drink onto the carpet.

"I called her," she said calmly, crossing her legs. "There’s some bad news."

"Oh great! Now what?"

"Less of the histrionics please." She took a drink. "There’s been an accident."

I blinked.

"A Motorcycle accident. She was riding with her boyfriend a few months ago and they hit a truck. He was killed, she was badly scarred. She’s had plastic surgery but . . " She let the sentence trail off.

"Oh god." I quickly finished the drink. Suzanne poured me another.

"Calm down. She’s ok. "

"That’s not the point is it! There’s no way we can use her now is there?" We had used her photograph since then. Cruel, I know, to be thinking of such pragmatics, but my mind was in a very selfish place at the time; understandably, I think.

Suzanne nodded. "There is another option."

"Her twin sister?" I added hopefully. Suzanne shot me a glare which I quickly avoided.

"No. " She paused, pursing her lips together. I knew this was a bad sign. "You do it."

I laughed. I laughed very hard indeed for the first time in a few days.

"You’re kidding right?" I asked, when I had wiped away the tears. "I mean, I look nothing like her, despite what you might think. She has a figure to die for, I have love handles and a goatee!"

"Look, Tom. Who can talk about Andrea’s books better than you?" I shrugged.

"We could train an actress, someone who looks similar." I ventured.

"It has to be you."

I began to speak, to say anything that would change this crazy woman’s mind. I looked into her eyes, and saw how resolute they were. I realise she was right.

"So I go on TV and admit that Andrea was a pseudonym."

"And have this thrown at you." She picked up the newspaper and threw it at me.

She was right. I didn’t need the bad press. Or more bad press, to be exact. I needed to defend myself. And I needed to be Andrea.

"Its impossible."

"Leave it with me." She smiled, and raised her eyebrows; an expression I have grown to fear.

When I returned to work on Monday I was still a nervous wreck. Even more so when I found out that MBC had phoned. I went into a paralytic shock when I found out that Suzanne had set a date! Two weeks from tomorrow. I went straight into her office, to be confronted by Suzanne and another woman in a meeting.

"I need to talk to you!" I said. I think I may have shouted.

"Ah, right on time." Suzanne gave me a predatory grin. "Tom, I want you to meet

Charlie." She gestured to the woman opposite her.

The woman, who was introduced to me as Charlie, turned her head towards me. I think my mouth must have opened slightly.

She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. Her dark brown hair formed a mass of curls around a lovely round face. Her red lips pouted slightly as she extended a slender hand and said, in an enchanting voice, "Charmed" I took it, and shook it dumbly. Suzanne gestured at the chair next to Charlie’s, which I took. I was surprised when I sat down as Charlie turned her chair and faced me directly.

"Charlie is going to help us with our problem Tom."

I gave Charlie a look over, from head to feet. I must confess this wasn’t completely professional. She was wearing a business suit, with a short brown skirt that sat on her shapely nylon-clad thighs. He white blouse was open at the throat down to the top of her impressive cleavage, and open enough that I could see the lace trim of her brassiere.

I turned to Suzanne. "No offence, but she doesn’t look anything like Rebecca."

Suzanne smiled. "That’s not quite the point, Tom."

I turned, with a puzzled look on my face back to the gorgeous woman who sat next to me. She reached up to her blouse and started unbuttoning it! I couldn’t say anything, and was frozen to the spot, as I watched her undo the last button, and wiggle slightly as she took it off, letting it drop to the floor beside her. I looked round in a panic, and noticed that the blinds of Suzanne’s office were down.

Charlie smiled at me, and I felt my pulse increase. "Do you like what you see, Tom?"

The words surprised me. I had never heard a woman say that in my life.

"Or would you like to see more?" She stood up and turned around, pushing her delightful ass in my face. As she wiggled her behind, she brought her hand round and caressed it in front of me, before unzipping the short skirt and letting it slide down her nylon stockings (I could see they were stockings now!). She turned to face me again, her hands on her hips as I took in her body. As my eyes passed over her breasts she smiled at me, and unclipped her bra at the front, exposing her impressive breasts to the world. Her nipples were rock hard, and they weren’t the only thing. I felt my penis strain against the confines of the jeans I wore. By this time I was completely engrossed in the rather strange performance in front of me. I had completely forgotten about Suzanne. Even more so when the gorgeous woman in front of me unclasped each stocking clip and slid her panties down her legs, revealing a small patch of brown fur between her legs. I had completely lost my voice, and could only stare at this display of female flesh.

"Do you think I am a beautiful woman?" Charlie asked, caressing her own body with a disturbing narcissism. "Would you like to fuck me?" I said nothing, instead watching her red fingernails trace lines down her abundant curves. Finally I nodded.

A triumphant smile grew on the lips of this lush woman as she sat down, completely graceful and very naked, apart from her stockings.

"What do you think of him, Tom?" I was brought back to reality by Suzanne.

"She’s gorgeous." I said, unthinking. My gaze never moving from this wonderful woman. There was a pause for a few seconds as my mind caught up with current events. As I have said before, I sometimes overlook the obvious.

"Him?!"

There was a giggle from the chair next to me, as Charlie wiggled out of the chair, her (his?) sumptuous body rising to her full height. She bent down, her (his?) large round breasts hanging in front of my eyes and took my hand from my lap and placed it onto her pert nipples. She felt wonderful, warm and smooth and soft. Meanwhile my brain was doing cartwheels. She stood suddenly, gathered her clothes, and strutted into Suzanne’s washroom as I watched her perfect ass wiggle.

I blinked several times before I regained the power of speech.

"Him?"

"Charlie is a makeup artist. He’s a friend of a friend."

"And the little show was to . ." I tried to cover up my arousal.

"Prove to you that a man can be a woman. And a convincing one to. Here," she tossed me over a Polaroid photograph. It was of a handsome man, dressed in an expensive suit. There was no similarity in the photograph between this man and the woman who had taken her clothes off for me.

"How long ago was this taken? I mean, I know surgery and drugs and . . ."

"Yesterday." She said flatly.

"My God. That’s. " I fished for a word. "Stunning." I paused. "But, there’s more to being a woman than looks and . boobs." I finished, my mind still dwelling on the delightful curves of the strip artist.

"Let me worry about that. Look." She leaned forward, "you need to be on this TV show. You need more exposure. I know it sounds ridiculous but you know you have to do it."

"Ok, but I have to tell you something first." This had been playing on my mind.

Suzanne nodded.

"We’ve been friends for a long time, so I suppose I can trust you with this." I sighed, this was going to be difficult. "You know I’ve not had a girlfriend for a while, well, its because I drive them away. I’m a crossdresser."

"I know, Tom. Why else do you think I would have suggested this."

"You Know?! HOW!?" My mouth was wide open at this point, partly in anger, partly in disbelief.

"Woman’s intuition?" She smirked. This did not improve my mood.

I had never cross dressed outside of my house. It had all started with my sisters stuff (you knew this was coming, didn’t you?) and had progressed through college. I was not "out" on the public scene, and didn’t really have any desire to be, since I knew (after a couple of homosexual experiences) that I was not gay, or, in fact, interested in sex much at all. However, I loved the female form, loved its beauty and shape, and the clothes that it suited. One of my girlfriends once suggested that the only perfect woman for me was me in a frock. This was at the end of a particularly stressful break-up I might add. It turns out she was right.

"Your flat. I knew you lived alone, and wasn’t seeing anyone, so I did wonder a little at the lingerie drying in your kitchen." I sniffed.

"Ok, fair point."

"Don’t be mad at me, Tom. I know you must feel a little exposed at the moment. If it means anything you have excellent taste."

I giggled at that. "Ok, ok. I want to do this Suz. I really do."

She smiled. "I knew you would. Charlie!"

The tall woman walked back into the office, fully dressed again. Except this time her blouse was more modestly arranged. She offered me her hand again. This time I kissed it.

"Tom, I can make you look exactly like this girl," she gestured towards the photographs of Rebecca arranged on the desk. "I can make you walk like her, talk like her and give you her body. All you have to do is trust me. OK?"

I nodded and smiled. "Ok. I trust you. Anyone who can make themselves look like you do not only deserves my trust, but my admiration too."

She blushed. "Thank you. I take it you enjoyed my show?" She smiled. "I’m not actually that much of a slut, but hey, I was making a point."

"Good point, well made" I quipped. "The first thing that worries me is that I don’t even vaguely sound like a woman. I mean, I believe that you can make me look like Rebecca, but I’ve never been even remotely good at giving myself a woman’s voice."

"Andrea, sweetheart, leave it all to me."

I stood in a white bathrobe in Charlie’s studio. It was amazing. There were variously dressed mannequins and dummies everywhere, and several disembodied heads. The most obvious part of the room was dominated by a huge mirror, surrounded by very theatrical lights, a couple of tables with an assortment of make-up and surgical tools. To say I was scared was an understatement. Charlie was there, of course, dressed as I had seen him in the photograph, except in Jeans and a T-shirt. The woman I had seen had gone completely, although I was not surprised when I saw her face hanging on one of the polystyrene heads.

"Ok, Tom. This is going to be a long process." He sat me down in what appeared to be a dentists chair.

"Do you have to do a full job?" I asked. "I mean, no one’s going to see me naked."

He smiled. "That’s not the point. If you are a woman from the skin out, you feel more feminine. Have you ever done amateur dramatics?" I said that I had, in college. "Right, then you’ll know yourself. You can rehearse a part all you like, but its only when you in complete costume that you feel closer to the person you’re playing."

I nodded, and could only agree.

"Ok, what we’re going to do is take a cast of your face, and accurate measurements of your body. I don’t have Rebecca’s face here sadly, so I’ll do the best I can with these pictures. Your body will be a lot easier, believe it or not, because all I have to do is take your measurements and make them into hers. At the end of this you’ll be a 36-24-36." He smiled. "Nervous?"

"Very. I’m just worried about this, and the TV show and, well, not making a fool of myself really."

He put a hand on my shoulder. "Listen Andrea. You’ll be fine. Just pretend you’re a character in one of your books." I nodded and took a deep breath. "You’ll have to take your robe off."

I had prepared myself for this, and had, as per Charlie’s instructions, shaved my entire body the night before (although, this had only really been my legs and pubic areas. I’ve never really had much in the way of chest or arm hair). I had even shaved my goatee, which made my face look very odd. I removed the robe, and placed it on a nearby chair.

Charlie said nothing, but walked up to me with a measuring tape and proceeded, for about twenty minutes, to take various measurements and write them down. "You can get dressed if you like," he said. I complied.

He them gestured to the chair in front of the mirror, and sat me down. "Ok, I’m going to take a cast of your face. To be honest this wont be pleasant." I nodded and took a deep breath. "Hey, relax OK. You’re going to be beautiful."

He placed a latex cap over my head, covering all my hair, and two straws up my nose. For the next hour my entire face and neck was covered with a foul-smelling green paste which made my skin itch. After it my face was all equally covered, and Charlie was happy, he left me sitting there for a further half hour, breathing through the straws in my nose, as we waited for the mould to set. It seemed like an eternity.

The mould was taken off my face in two halves, which I was glad of! While I was rubbing my face and trying the novelty of breathing properly, Charlie put it together again on a special rack, and poured a white grainy liquid into the mould through the open neck. After a while he opened the green mould, to reveal a perfect bust of my head.

"Not bad, eh Tom?"

I could only nod, bemused.

I got the afternoon off that day, as Charlie did whatever he did to make my face on the cast look like Rebecca’s. I went home, and sat in front of my computer, hoping that I could write something, anything, to take my mind off what was happening. I guess when truth is stranger than fiction you really have nothing to write. After an hour or so of this I gave up, and went out for lunch. After a short while sitting in the restaurant I had already settled into my usual habit of watching people going about their lives. Something was different this time though. Instead of watching the customers in the quiet restaurant and creative lives for them, a narrative if you will; I was only watching the women, and I was watching how they acted.

There were two young women in their middle twenties at a table opposite, talking and laughing. They were dressed quite casually, one in jeans and a sweater, the other in a long skirt and tight vest top. I became acutely aware of their subtle mannerisms as I watched them and began, with a subconscious desire, to mimic how they ate, moved and so forth. After a few minutes of this I shook myself and stopped, confused and more than a little worried. What did this mean? Nothing, I was sure. Only that I was interested in playing a woman very well. If this was how I acted having never been fully made up however, I began to worry what I would do after being "in costume" for a day or so! I shrugged it off, and returned to my lunch.

The next day I returned to Charlie’s workshop at around seven am. He was already up and moving about when I arrived. Sitting, proudly, on the table next to the mirror was a perfect, flesh-coloured render of Rebecca’s face. I recognised the mould underneath. It was my face.

"What do you think Tom?" asked Charlie, over his shoulder as he mixed something in a bucket at the far end of the room.

"Its staggering. Really." I looked at it from all angles. It was very subtle, with as much of the wearer’s own face visible as possible. Obviously my chin would be completely covered by the prosthesis (so as not to give my stubble free reign), and my cheekbones and nose, but the forehead area and a great deal else was completely uncovered by the mask. I touched the cheekbones, and found them to be filled with some liquid which gave them realistic properties. "Amazing."

"Thanks." Charlie turned round, bucket in hand. "I thought we’d work on your body this morning, and then this afternoon see if the face is going to be OK. It should be though," he added.

"Fine," I shrugged. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just take off all your clothes and lie on the chair," he said, matter-of-factly.

I was still not used to his manner, and so was still quite hesitant about disrobing in front of him. Never the less I did so and sat in the chair, my body exposed to the world.

"First things first," Charlie walked over to me, "you have to shave and do hair removal every day from now on. Ok?" I nodded. "Shaving isn’t really good enough, so go get your legs waxed." I blinked, and Charlie smiled. "We’ll do it tomorrow, once you’ve got your make-up on." The thought sent butterflies through my stomach - I had never been out cross dressed before. Charlie must have seen my panic because he smiled and shook his head. "You’ll be wonderful. And I’ll be with you to make sure you do great. OK?" I nodded. "But for the rest of your hair removal, use this cream," he gestured to a bottle on the table top. "I’ll give you some away with you. Make sure you use it though, it makes things easier."

"Now, the first thing we’ve got to do with your body is fairly unpleasant, but if we get it over with quickly then .. "he stopped, "Well, it’ll be over with." He smiled.

"Ok, what is it?" I asked, looking warily at the bucket in his hand.

Setting down the bucket on a worktop, he produced what can only be described as a pipe. "I have to catheter you."

Once done, (an experience I have never really grown fond of) I was told to don a pair of skin-tight panties, made of some rubber. "This rubber is porous, sort of like latex mixed with lycra. So your skin can breathe." I nodded and donned the tight, tight undergarment. My penis was pushed flat against my stomach and the catheter was fed through a hole in the bottom of the panties. I was not surprised to note there was a long slit at the rear of the garment. Charlie then produced a pair of bicycle shorts. They were flesh tone, very thin, and made of the same rubber material. I didn’t need a diagram to know where they were going, or why. The shorts were padded, in the hips, rear and front and sported a perfect patch of dark brown curls between the legs. I pulled them on, with great effort, and wiggled around a little until they were snug against my skin. I looked down. It looked like I was wearing a pair of skin-coloured shorts. I was less than impressed, and said so.

"Wait, Andrea, wait. There is magic at work."

During the course of the next hour I was told to spread my legs wide, and an artificial latex vagina was fitted, and blended with the colour of the shorts. The bottom of the shorts, which sat just at the edge of my "bikini line" were blended with the tops of my legs, and a layer of special foundation applied to the rest of the area between my stomach and my thighs.

Then came the garment I was dreading. A corset. This particular garment was the same flesh colour that the shorts had started out as, was made of the same material and was soaking wet. I also didn’t have any hooks, eyes or a zip. It was put over my head, and pulled down into position, just slightly above the artificial swell of my pubis and just underneath my nipples. It was tight, but not unbearable as it stretched a little for ease of wearing. My stomach was certainly a lot flatter, with less in the way of love handles, but it was by no means a 24 inch waist. Charlie surprised me again. Once he was satisfied that it was in the correct place, he turned a hair dryer on me, drying out the wet-suit type corset. As the water left the garment, it began to shrink and mould my body to the mould with which it had been designed. It was extraordinarily painful. When it was completely dry I sported a wasp-like waist and perfectly proportioned hips and ass. The fact that none of this looked in any way real at the moment was a slight worry. I said nothing, and watched with a due sense of fascination as a pair of breasts were brought forth.

I confess, I have always been a breast man. Well, breasts and hips. Curves basically. And I knew enough about the curves being attached to my body to know that these were impressive. (I also knew from studying Rebecca’s portfolio that she was a 36C) After the silicon breasts were attached, another rubber one-piece garment was put around them and fitted into place around my back. It was at this point, once the glue had set, that we stopped for a break.

I examined my self in the mirror. I looked like a woman-shaped doll. The colours of my body were completely unnatural. At this point I began to doubt Charlie’s abilities. Bearing in mind the show I had received yesterday, I should really have had more confidence. I voiced my concerns to him as he drank his coffee, which he politely ignored, simply telling me to "wait."

The next hour was the most magical time in my life. I watched Charlie apply various kinds of blending, toning, and foundation make-up to my "body" with a skill and artistic eye I had never seen. Finally, I was told to stand and sprayed all over with some form of setting agent. I had my eyes closed for the duration of the spraying, and my contact lenses out, so even when I opened them I couldn’t really see anything. After the setting agent had set, I was told to sit down again, and close my eyes as he applied my face. It was a strange sensation, wearing this body, and I began to explore it through my mind as Charlie fussed and attached things to my face and neck. My waist was sore. This was the first thing that struck me. Every time I took a breath I felt the constriction, but that wasn’t all I felt. The sensation of my unclad breasts rising and falling as I inhaled was amazing. There was a subtle weight, which I had compensated for automatically. However, any time I tried to turn myself on, by imagining what I looked like naked, I was painfully reminded of the catheter and the tight constriction around my penis. For some reason, at this point, I thought this was not going to be a great deal of fun.

Charlie stopped for a break again one all the appliances were attached to my face. He made idle chit chat about this and that, and even brought up one of my books, which he had obviously read repeatedly. I was still very nervous indeed. I was completely vulnerable at this point, having never been so in my life. My body was entirely in his hands, as it were, and it scared me.

After the break the make-up was applied to my face as I sat, eyes closed. My hair was still its natural colour (brown) but we decided to leave it for now, so that we could practice outside without too many people stopping for autographs (!). Finally, a set of deep green contact lenses were put in my eyes. I refused to open them. I felt Charlie’s hands take me by the waist and lift me up, and walk me over to a point in the room. He let go. I don’t think I have ever been more scared to open my eyes than I was at that point. I was woken from my panic by Charlie softly whispering in my ear, "Andrea. Tell me what you think."

I opened my eyes.

Rebecca stood before me. Although to simply say that is not to do justice to what I saw. In the large mirror in front of me stood an open mouthed Goddess. Her breasts, which were the first thing to strike me, were unnatural. They were full, round, high and perfect. I turned slightly, and was not surprised to see that my ass was similar. Perfectly round, high and completely unlikely in a woman. My legs looked longer, completely without blemish, smooth and striking. My hips were wide with a bone structure that pointed to the smooth mound between my legs, and the red hair that nestled underneath. My waist was so thin! I couldn’t believe it. The effect of which was to make my hips and ass look even larger, and more impressive. I brought one of my hands up to my neck. I was not surprised to see that my hands were perfectly in proportion with my body, and that my fingernails were now a light blue. My neck was completely smooth, with not a trace of an Adam’s apple. But my face, my face was the masterpiece. It was Rebecca. >From the small nose to the high cheekbones. And the eyes! Oh, the eyes were the same beautiful piercing deep green. However, it was also not Rebecca. My face was older, more mature than that of the eighteen year old that had posed about a year ago for me.

As a afterthought my eyes travelled down to my belly button, which was an exact copy. I giggled.

I froze.

I had not giggled my giggle. For some reason I had expected a deep, manly giggle, which is what I normally do. I should have know that Charlie would have come to my rescue. I spoke the first words Andrea had ever said, "I’m a woman."

My voice was amazing. High and soft it sounded like .. sounded like.. I couldn’t quite place it. Charlie spoke behind me, but I was so engrossed in the form that stood before me - that was me - and the dramatic change that had taken place that I didn’t hear him. Then I felt his hands softly rest on my hips.

It suddenly struck me that I was naked. I know this may sound like a strange thing to say, but my mind was still thinking in terms of my body underneath the make up. Now I found myself realising that for Andrea, this was naked.

"I said, " said Charlie, with a smiled I could see reflected in the mirror, "what do you think?"

"I think I’m naked." I replied, very conscious of his hands now, and still unaccustomed to the voice I spoke in.

"Is there anything I should change? I mean, you’ve met this girl before, you know what she’s like." His hands began to gently move down and round my hips.

I was unable to turn around. Unable to move.

"Its . . . I’m perfect." I replied, hesitantly.

"Thank you," he said softly, moving his hands now up my narrow frame, caressing my narrow waist, moving towards my breasts.

I had no idea what to think, or what to do. So I stood there, watching. Waiting.

Suddenly, instead of touching my breasts, which I had been readying myself for, he grabbed me hard by the waist, and pulled me round, so my face was level with his.

"Stop being so narcissistic, " he grinned, "and go get dressed."

Charlie had left me to my own devices as I stood in nirvana. Racks and racks of clothes of various sizes were laid up before me. Basically, I had no idea where to start. He had told me that we were going out to meet some friends of his, but this left me with so much scope for occasion he may as well have said nothing. After a great deal of deliberation I chose a print dress, a long black skirt with matching vest top, and a short brown skirt suit I recognised. There was quite a selection of underwear too, but for the sake of nostalgia, and to make me feel even more like Rebecca, I chose a black underwire bra and matching panties. As I walked to the room Charlie had set up for changing in, nakedly carrying my bundle of clothes, I became aware of several slight but important changes. The first that struck me was that I was no longer in any pain at all. This meant that I was getting used to the make-up, but also that the thought of cross dressing hadn’t made me aroused. The second was that I was walking differently. The way the prosthesis was applied to my hips and ass meant that I couldn’t walk like a man and that I had to roll my hips.

I stood naked in front of the mirror in the changing room, a pile of clothes on the bed besides me, my hands by my side. I began turning this way and that to try and examine myself from all angles. I was hot. There were no two ways about it. I brought one hand up, and tentatively touched my left breast. It felt warm, soft and full. My nipples stood out proud from both of them. Yet on the inside I couldn’t feel them. I had felt my boobs jiggle as I walked, because of the tug on my chest, but I couldn’t feel my touch on them. I continued to explore, moving down my waist to my hips, which also felt firm and warm on the outside, but dead on the inside. Only when I put pressure on my ass, by squeezing hard, did I feel anything. I moved my delicately manicured hand round to the front of my hips, and down to between my legs. It was warm. I found my pussy and began fondling it, trying to get a reaction. Nothing. Then penetration. Ohmygod. A shiver of pure pleasure ran up and down my moulded body. It wasn’t deep, but god was it effective!

I was brought out of my reverie by a loud noise outside, and decided that Charlie must be growing impatient. I slipped on the black g-string panties, which felt wonderful on my legs, and manoeuvred them into place. Next the black bra, which I clipped together at the front, and swivelled around until the cups were under my tremendous boobs. I slid the straps over my shoulders, revelling in the fact that I actually had breasts to put it this garment now. After five minutes of adjusting and re-adjusting the straps I was cursing them. After the bra was in place, and my tits had been delightfully arranged inside it, I stood back and looked at myself in the mirror. The g-string made my ass look even rounder, and my boobs were high and proud on my chest, with very impressive cleavage. I looked exactly like Rebecca had done on the day we had met. I re-arranged my underwear, as she had done, and giggled.

I turned suddenly as the door opened, but made no effort to cover my nubile body. Charlie walked in, made-up. She was completely naked, a sight I had seen and relished before. She said nothing, but walked straight up to me and kissed me full on the lips, her hands wrapped around my waist and groping for my ass. I responded hungrily, pressing my body to hers. She stopped, pushing me away, mouthing the word "later" with her lips. I must have frowned, because she smiled at me with a playful pout, kissed me on the nose, and turned, walking towards a set of drawers. I realised then that this was her room. "Come on, get dressed sweetie, we’ve got lots to do!" Charlie’s voice was still the same light tenor, completely wrong with her body; masculine and hard to her soft and feminine. For some reason this shock made me even more excited. She looked over at me, obviously aware of my excitement, rolled her eyes heavenward and shook her head, before delving into the chest of drawers and pulling out a matching set of white, satin underwear. She turned to face me, as I was perched on the edge of the bed (her bed?) sliding a pair of silk stockings up my shapely legs, and held the bra up to her ample bust, giving me a "what do you think?" look. I laughed and nodded my approval.

It was amazing: I just "fell" into the role of Andrea. Once dressed, and after a brief panic running around for accessories, I realised I was moving differently, conscious of the constraints - and benefits - of my clothes and body. I began to talk differently, changing how I said things, and the moment Charlie caught me choosing between two pocket books was the moment I decided that maybe I was taking this too far.

She had called a cab, and had booked a restaurant, and was fussing around at the last minute before it arrived, giving me various counterfeit documents she had assembled - drivers licence, passport, credit cards, gym membership. Not once until that point had I given any thought about the type of woman that Andrea was, or the sort of life she would have led. She had simply become my wet dream. Was this the woman I was? Or the sort of woman I would have been? A bad character out of one of my early romance novels? All make up and wonderbras?

It was as if Charlie read my thoughts. "Worried that I’ve made Bride of Frankenstein?" she asked, noticing my lingering glances on the photo ids she had concocted.

"Kind of," I replied, my high voice seeming natural now, but different to the first time I had spoken with it. It was slightly deeper now, and not quite as, well, as bimboesque. "I just haven’t really thought about the sort of woman Andrea is. I just don’t feel she’s Joan Collins, you know?"

She laughed, "I know. Just roll with it." I nodded, "the more you adapt to your body and the way people treat you, the more you’re own personality will come through. At the moment you’ll probably feel really fake, and overcompensate for it by being girlier that thou. It’ll pass. I guarantee by the end of tonight you’ll be as Andrea as you’re going to be." She paused, and smiled at me. The door-bell rang, with a gruff call of "Taxi!"

"Ok, that’s us, got everything?" She asked, and I checked my pocketbook, looking around before I realised what Charlie may have forgotten.

"Erm, Charlie?" I asked, she looked up at me. "Are you going to do anything about your voice?"

"Oh, well done." She smiled, showing a row of perfect teeth, before opening her mouth and reaching inside, pulling out a brace. She walked over to the make-up table, and laid it down inside a case. "Thank you," she replied, in a very familiar, and very sexy soprano. She gave me a hug and kissed me lightly on the cheek, "Good luck tonight."

I smiled, checked my make-up in the mirror for a lipstick mark, and followed her out of the door, out heels clacking on the floorboards. If I had thought about it for a minute, I maybe would have realised that she had taken the brace out of her mouth, rather than put one in.

To be continued . . .

 

 

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