Crystal's StorySite

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 from bad experiences.

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This was written for the fun of it. Translation: Please no flames for lack of reality or the D/s and bondage content.

Finally, this is a piece of adult fiction. If you are underage, or if you find it offensive, please go elsewhere. Quickly.


Mall-T-D                       by: Samantha Michelle            1998


It started out as a simple trip to the mall. It really did.

In our city there are malls, and then there is the MALL. Located on the south side, it either has everything, or you can find it in one of the surrounding mega-stores. Whatever "it" is. I simply needed a book from the local Borders, and to get my beard trimmed. I was beginning to look too much like an underweight Grizzly Adams.

Ever hate your genes? On top I resembled a helicopter landing-pad, the clear zone surrounded by long, wind-blown dead grass. But I could grow a beard thicker than a briar patch, and not much easier to trim. So after looking like an escapee from an electric hedge trimmer massacre, I gave up cutting it myself and let a beauty shop do the dirty work.

Why a "beauty shop"? Because they cost about half of what it would at a "men's styling parlor", and the scenery was usually much better. Besides, it was a heck of a lot easier to get an appointment. It was cheaper still if I went to one attached to a "beautician school". Thus, the trip to the mall.

It was before ten, so I had to wait for all of five minutes before the receptionist, who resembled a blue-haired cross between Marilyn Manson and Dolly Parton, escorted me to the back of the shop. I guess they were busier than usual because I was in an area usually reserved for major projects - each station had shampoo sinks, bright moveable lights, dedicated dryers, and the floor was tile with drains. I thought laughingly that each station resembled a miniature operating room. There was a lot of traffic through where I wound up, as they were loading stuff from their stockroom onto some rather tall portable carts.

The trainee beautician was introduced to me as "Tina". I was told she had been there for over 11 months, and was ready to graduate. I showed her a picture of what I wanted (my regular trim) and she told me to relax and she would begin in a couple of minutes. She offered to give me a free shampoo, deep conditioning , and trim (my hair, what is left of it, is over a foot long) so she could get graded on doing a man's hair. Since I had nothing better to do for the next couple of hours, I agreed.

After washing and conditioning my beard (not usually done before a trim) she tilted me back into the big shampoo sink, and once I was comfortable covered most of my face with a damp towel and started on my hair. The shop was warm, her hands felt sooo ..... relaxing on my scalp, and I promptly fell sound asleep. The next thing I remember was the sound of a woman's scream and a crash just as I was pelted about the head and body with bottle after broken bottle of hair supplies. The damp cloth kept the stuff out of my eyes and mouth, but I was covered with broken glass and strange smelling goo. Figuring that broken glass was the biggest hazard, I lay very still until the commotion ended.

Apparently someone had been hurt, because Tina told me to lie still and not move until they could get the broken mirror and other glass off of me. I mumbled through the cloth "OK" and lay there listening to Tina and the staff trying to help someone who was injured when things went crash. There was not much else I could do, other than note how bad the stuff all over me smelled. I hoped that it was all shampoo, and not hair dye, but I really was not in a position to check.

After a few minutes the paramedics arrived and from what I could hear got the injured girl on a gurney and headed for the hospital. About this time I noticed that almost everywhere the goo had landed was beginning to itch. When the itch turned into a slight burn I gave a shout for Tina. I heard someone coming over and a horrified "Oh Shit" followed by Tina screaming for someone to help her get me rinsed off.

She told me to hold still, as the water would be cold. I found myself, clothing and all, getting rinsed off with the sprayer from the sink. The cool water lessened the stinging, and she told me that they would have to remove my clothing, as the stuff had soaked in. She assured me that they would get me some new clothes to wear as soon as I was clean and to hold still. She carefully put a clean cloth over my face. Someone then cut off all my clothing with scissors. I tried to protest as they snipped off my briefs, but the spray of cold water on my nether regions changed my protest to a shivering screech. They even took off my boots and socks.

When they had finally finished scrubbing me down (yes, dammit, everywhere) they dried me off with towels and then covered my midsection with a dry towel. My skin felt really funny, especially my face, and Tina said in a rather strained voice that she was going to change the cloth over my face a second time and to keep my eyes closed so she could make sure that there was no more glass or chemicals to remove. After another rinse, she patted my face dry, recovered it, raised the chair to a less reclining position, and told me she would be right back.

A moment later Tina introduced me verbally to a woman named Margaret, who said she was the salon owner, and that she was terribly sorry for what had happened and that they would do everything in their power to fix the damage from the accident. Something clicked. duh .... "damage, what damage? I know my clothes are ruined, but they are easily replaced."

Someone held my hand and said, "Tina did not tell you what has happened, did she?". I shook my head "no", then in a moment of dim inspiration said "let me guess, the goo was hair color and now I'm several weird shades of blonde?". She laughed a rather pitiful laugh. "I wish it was just hair color. It was mostly industrial strength hair remover. Except for your eyelashes, mustache, and some of your back, you are nearly as bare as a baby's bottom."

"What?!" I screamed and tried to sit up and look at myself, which resulted in my having to grab madly for the towel that was my only covering. Tina handed me my glasses and a mirror, and I whimpered. I looked like a pink Uncle Fester, without the warts. Looking down at my body was worse. There were a few small patches of hair on my legs, but otherwise I was pink. Everywhere. I leaned back slowly and tried to make sense of what happened. Reaching to feel my head, I realized I was completely bald. I started to shake and cry.

It took Tina and Margaret several minutes to calm me down. It is hard to explain to someone how much my long hair meant to me. When Margaret told me it would grow back, I explained bitterly that it had taken over eight years to reach it's current length, and that it had almost stopped growing altogether. In a sympathetic voice Margaret told me she would do what she could to help me, and then told me that if I did not want to itch for the next month that they would have to put moisturizer on all the areas where the chemicals had touched my skin. She then added she would be back in a few minutes to find out my sizes so they could get me something to wear.

All I could do is sit there feeling like a freak and wondering whether I would ever again look like something other than an overage skinhead. Tina came up with a large squeeze bottle of moisturizer and starting at the top, proceeded to slather me with it. When she reached my midsection she grabbed one of my hands, filled it with the fragrant stuff, and told me to take care of my private parts while she did my legs. I was told to leave it on for at least fifteen minutes and that she would bring some clean towels to wipe off the excess. It felt really good, and all the remaining itching and burning quickly disappeared.

When Margaret came back she said she had contacted her insurance company. They had assured her they would cover all expenses in restoring my appearance and replacing my clothes. She said she needed my full name and address and a telephone number where I could be reached. Finally, she asked what size clothes I wore and I gave her the basics. When she returned she had found everything, even new shoes. After Tina had wiped off the excess moisturizer I got up, carefully covering myself with a towel, and Tina took me to a private room where I was able to finish cleaning off the lotion and got dressed.

Everything felt WRONG. I had patches of hair on my legs and back where the goo had not reached, but the rest of my skin was smooth and soft and incredibly sensitive. And new clothes, especially jeans, are rough. I never wore anything unless it had been washed at least twice to make it more comfortable. Scratching furiously I left the dressing room and looked in a mirror. And cringed. I looked worse than I had thought. I still had small parts of my eyebrows and uneven beard fragments at the ends of the mustache. The word mange came to mind. With hairless arms (I used to be really furry), pink skin, and bald head I felt like one of those CPR dummies. The only thing that felt decent was the shirt, which I realized was made of some almost silky blend. It looked like an up-scale polo shirt. The soft-blue color was a bit weird, but it went well with the jeans.

Margaret came over and suggested that they try to clean up the loose edges and see if some makeup might help. I simply nodded and found myself nervously back in one of the salon's styling chairs. A few minutes later the remains of my eyebrows had been removed and the mustache trimmed evenly. But even with cosmetics they could not do much about the eyebrows and shiny, somewhat lumpy top. Without my bushy eyebrows the mustache looked ridiculous, so I finally had them remove it.

Without the mustache it was better, but not much. And the pants were itching worse. Margaret asked why I was scratching, and when I explained she nodded and told me some women had the same reaction and not to worry, as she had an easy fix.

A few minutes later she returned with a pair of women's pantyhose! I looked at her like she was crazy and she told me that the stockings would protect my now sensitive skin from the jeans, and that it was either that or itch. I guess that I did not have much male pride left by that point, and headed back to the dressing room to put them on. En route, she told me how to put them on so they would fit properly. Pulling off the shoes, socks and jeans I carefully worked the pantyhose over my legs. They felt weird, actually nice, no, make that really, really good. I wondered why more men did not try them.

Once I got everything in place I noticed that some of my stomach bulge was gone. A look at the package said it all "Extra silky maximum support firm shaper control top panty hose". Putting on the jeans was a whole new experience. They felt so smooth and comfortable over the stockings, and the way the stockings caressed my legs when I walked tried to get me aroused. But the term firm shaper meant just that. There was no room for an erection, and the discomfort from the attempt made everything go back to normal. So I returned to where she had been working on my face and in-route found that I had to tighten the belt a whole notch.

Several tries later makeup still did not help my appearance. I seemed to go from pug-ugly to gargoyle with no intermediate stops. Finally she said that without hair and eyebrows I was going to look a bit strange. I told her I simply wanted to be back to my old ugly self, with my own hair. She looked sadly at me, and told me that there was nothing she could do, and that they would have a custom wig made for me as soon as possible, but that meant at least several weeks. She said that her company would do everything they could to help me until things had grown back. She then asked me if it would affect my job, and I told her that not much affected being a college student (I was going back to get an advanced degree). I said I expected that finding part-time employment would be a problem. She unhappily nodded.

Giving up on the makeup, she finally asked if I would mind if she tried a wig or two on me for ideas. I shrugged, figuring it could not get worse. She then measured my head in several different ways and made some calls. She told me it would take about an hour before the place we needed to go opened, and asked if I was hungry. I realized that I had not eaten breakfast, and she suggested that I accompany her to the specialty shop where she had located some wigs large enough to fit me. I began to agree when I realized that I would have to go out in public looking like this. She thought for a moment, and came back with a baseball cap, some large dark sunglasses, and a scarf. A moment later I looked like someone trying to hide their appearance (I was), but I knew no one would recognize me in the new designer jeans and funny shirt.

We stopped at a Subway for lunch, and I received only a few strange stares from the group of high-school piercing projects that were noisily taking up space. Our destination turned out to be a boutique that I knew advertised as catering to the theater, show-club, and alternate lifestyles community. When I looked skeptical, she replied "it is the only place in town that carries a large enough size, and the owner is an old friend of mine who is completely discreet". With that she locked up her car and we went inside.

I felt really uncomfortable as we walked between racks of slinky spandex outfits and displays of adult toys. Near the back I saw the wigs, right next to a bunch of leather wear, handcuffs, and things on chains. I began to look for the back exit just in case .... Soon a small but almost formally dressed man grabbed Margaret and gave her long kiss before pinching her firmly on the bottom. She squeaked, and blushed as she told him this was strictly a business visit. He looked sad for a moment and then introduced himself as Michael, the owner. When he asked Margaret about the disguise, she whisked off the hat, scarf and glasses before I could protest, and he stared at me.

"What in the .. " he paused, "happened to her?. Her? I thought, then said in a very masculine voice, "you mean what happened to ME?" He jumped back and looked very embarrassed. "Um, sorry about that, but I thought Margaret's salon only did makeovers on women." He replied. Before I could respond, Margaret detailed out what had happened and why we were there. He took in the information and told me to sit in the barber's chair that was by the wig rack. I think he circled me, muttering to himself, at least five times. He looked at me from different angles before revealing a far-away look, and told Margaret that he had a solution. But he said he first needed to see if her ideas would work.

So he selected a couple of men's wigs at her request, and I got to play mannequin while they tried many different combinations. He pulled out a makeup kit and they tried different colors, always taking them off after shaking their heads. Finally, Margaret told me that they had found the best possible combination, but even she thought it looked rather sad. I checked myself in a mirror, and she was right. From a distance it was not bad, but up close I looked like a bad actor with cheap makeup. I shook my head, muttering something about becoming a monk as I sat dejectedly back into the chair.

Michael asked me quietly if I would humor him and let him try a completely different look. When I asked what it was, he said that to explain would spoil the effect. He then asked if I was a gaming type, and I told him I had been playing role-games since before he had stopped filling diapers. He chuckled, and told me to take off my shirt and sit on a stool under some display lamps. He then handed me a large, padded soft velvet blindfold and told me to put it on so I could not see what he was doing till he was finished. I put it on, and he adjusted it until I could see absolutely no light. He asked me about the now very visible panty-hose tops, and I embarrassed told him why I was wearing them. He told me he understood, and I heard him leave the area.

I asked Margaret what she thought his idea was, and she seemed truthful when she told me she had no clue. When Michael returned I heard a soft, husky female voice, and he introduced me verbally to a young woman named Tammy, one of his assistants. Margaret suddenly started to giggle, and told Michael that she had to get back to work, and to call her to pick me up when he was finished. He told her that if his idea worked it would cost her, and she laughed. I began to feel uneasy.

I heard her heels click across the concrete floor as she left, and Michael asked me what my natural hair color was, and if I had ever tried another color. I told him that my natural color was a dark brown, with some gray, and that my beard and mustache, when they grew back, were a mixed red/brown with plenty of gray. He asked how I wore my hair and I told him that since I had left the military I had let it grow, and that came down almost to my shoulder blades in a pony tail before the accident at Margaret's shop. He asked if I liked my hair long, and I told him in a somewhat bitter voice I loved it.

I heard him ask Tammy to check his stock for a certain model wig, and then he asked me if I would object to having somewhat longer hair. I told him no, as I loved the feel of long hair on my skin. I swear he giggled, and I felt miserable. A moment later I heard someone returning, and Michael asked me to sit very still as he placed a soft, heavy wig on my head, and adjusted it several ways. The underside was smooth, almost like a second skin that seemed to cling to my scalp. The wig hung down almost to my waist, flowing erotically across my now almost hairless back. I wriggled involuntarily, and then sat in an embarrassed, very still silence. I felt Michael make a few more adjustments, and them begin with some makeup. I sat there enjoying the feel of the hair until he told me to very carefully stand up.

After a minute, I heard him discussing something with Tammy, and he helped me sit back on the stool, the hair swirling around me. The dammed panty hose was painfully crunching my attempt at an erection, and I did not know what to do. Tammy returned and told Michael that they did not have the color he requested, but thought that the one she found would work even better. Michael then told me to raise my arms over my head, and they pulled something wonderfully soft and silky over my head, and then repositioned the hair over it. It felt like satin, and when I began to ask about it Michael told me it would keep the next layer of clothing off of my newly sensitive skin. It felt so good I did not argue.

Michael then helped me to stand and told me we were going to walk to another part of the store to try on some additional clothes. I should have listened to that nagging little itch that said things were not as they seemed. But it had been too much in one day, and I went along quietly. The area we entered had a soft, carpeted floor and I almost tripped when my new shoes gripped the surface. When he told me to stretch my arms high above my head so he could take some measurements, I raised them and stretched.


I felt something soft and firm snap around my wrists, and when I tied to pull my arms down found I was almost suspended by the wrists from something above my head.

As I started to panic Michael told me that he was not going to hurt me, and that it was necessary for me to be secured while they finished dressing me. I started to shout at him, and he asked that I please be quiet, but I continued and a moment later had a soft rubber ball stuffed into my mouth, held in with a strap that was quickly secured behind my head. After he confirmed that I was breathing OK, he told me to relax and enjoy what he was doing. I tried again to yell, but all that came out was a muffled urpfgh.

Shortly I felt someone take off my shoes and socks, loosen my belt, and pull off my pants. I was sure that I was going to be raped or tortured or something. The next thing that went were the panty hose, carefully removed by someone with long nails. I figured it was Tammy. Finally my shorts. And to make matters worse, I was getting an uncontrollable erection. I felt so humiliated I started to cry. Michael gave me a hug and told me that everything was going to be fine, and held me until I stopped sobbing. He then offered to remove the gag if I agreed to be quiet, and I nodded. It felt good to be able to close my mouth again, and I accepted the sip of water that someone gave me.

Michael told me he was going to put something on my penis to make it soft, and I felt a cool spray that immediately made everything numb. Once I shrank back to nothing, I felt them work a tight elastic garment over my feet and up my legs. Michael reached between my legs and pulled my private parts back and up, and Tammy finished pulling the garment into place. It felt like I thought my wife's panty-girdle looked, but it came up higher and tighter. And the hips and butt felt cool and funny (I found out later they were padded). A few adjustments and I realized that I was completely and almost comfortably hidden by the garment. The next thing I felt was something stiff being placed around my body, and secured at the front. I felt straps attached to the front to the garment being pull over my shoulders and attached at the back. When Michael told me to exhale, I realized what I was wearing, and the laces of the corset were pulled together. It took them both fifteen minutes to lace me tightly into the corset. I found myself hanging by the wrists as they pulled and pulled the laces tight. Finally I felt the straps, now set far out on my shoulders, pulled tightly into place, forcing me to stand almost rigidly upright, nearly unable to breathe.

Michael and Tammy conversed for a moment, and I felt the shoulder straps being released and the upper laces of the corset loosen. Tammy put a belt around my now small waist, and releasing one arm, pulled it behind me and secured it to the belt. The other arm followed, and all I could do was stand there. Tammy then slipped the soft undergarment off my shoulders, and pulled it down as far as possible, unhooking the upper front of the corset as she went. Michael then placed a pair of very soft, cool blobs against my chest, and checked the fit in the cups of the corset. He removed them and returned a couple of minutes later with smaller blobs, and after fiddling with them, pulled them free. he then told me to stand very still, and wiped my hairless chest with alcohol. I smelled something like a solvent, and he carefully placed each blob into place, smoothing the edges onto my skin.

After a couple of minutes, he brushed something liquid over the seam between the blob and my chest, and then began applying what felt like makeup when the liquid dried. up went the silky undergarment, over the blobs, and he re-secured the corset. Once my arms were again over my head, the lacing and straps were tightened. I felt my fake breasts being forced up and out, and realized that I now had cleavage, lots of it. I felt excited and scared. Years before I had played around dressing in women's clothing, but had given it up as I always felt silly even although I really enjoyed the feelings it created. Now I was dressed far more completely that I had ever thought possible, and was afraid there was more to come.

I was right. I felt the few patches of hair remaining on my legs being carefully shaved off, and silky, satiny stockings drawn over my legs and secured to the garters at the bottom of the corset. A heavy soft, flowing skirt followed, laced to the contours of my corseted waist. One arm at a time, the softest sweater I had ever felt was drawn over my head and pulled into place. It fit tightly, and dipped low in the front, but covered the corset straps completely. Re-securing the belt about my waist, and my hands to the belt, they led me over to a bench and had me sit while they measured my feet. A few minutes later Tammy slipped a soft leather boot with what felt like an impossibly high heel onto my left foot, and Michael slipped an identical boot on the right.

After lacing the knee-high boots tightly over my calves, they helped me to my feet, and told me how to maneuver in the heels as they escorted me along, still blindfolded, to another part of the shop. I felt myself being sat back on the stool, and Michael returned to adding makeup. He told me that I had come out better than he had originally planned, and that he was almost finished. He told me he had to take the blindfold off to finish my eyes, and to look only straight ahead. The light was blinding, and it took a minute of blinking before he was able to finish my eyelids and lashes. After directing me to close my eyes, he worked on my cheeks.. I wanted to scream that I could not go out like this, but my wrists locked behind me suggested that it was not going to be my choice.

I was then led back to the barber's chair, the belt was secured to the chair, each arm was separately freed, and my wrists re-secured to the arms of the chair. Michael carefully replaced the blindfold and left me sitting. Michael then told me it would take about an hour to do my nails, and to simply relax, as if I moved it could take longer. As my nails were hardening, I knew now that I was going to die, or something worse. Visions of bad-girl "B" movies ran through my head. Much sanding and filing and smelly chemicals later I was allowed to feel my new long, hard nails against both the chair and my palms. They felt like they stuck out half an inch!. I heard Tammy talking to Margaret on telephone and telling her to come and pick me up

I was thinking that maybe looking like a bald cherub for the rest of my probably short life might not be so bad. Maybe I could make the excuse that I was attacked by a group of demented of FemiNazis, shaved bald, and left like this. Or explain that I was an extra in a new Ben-Hur movie. But most likely I figured they would find my remains on a local street tomorrow after a group of beer-saturated homophobic hard hats pounded my poor beleaguered body into the pavement for impersonating a human being. I wondered if I had enough in checking to get a flight out of town ahead of the tar and feathers.

My thoughts were broken by the sound of Michael greeting Margaret, and asking her to follow him back to the playroom. Playroom? I pondered, then I realized that was my current location. I heard him tell her that I had not yet seen myself, and to wait until he called to come in. Michael told me to stand, and then faced me in a specific direction. He instructed me to look only straight ahead, and follow any directions he gave me. Then he removed the blindfold and put my prescription glasses back on, making slight corrections to the makeup and hair.

I was told to open my eyes, and after I adjusted to the light, he called for Margaret. I watched her enter the room, look at me, look at Michael, and then stare at me for what seemed like a short eternity. The shocked expression on her face replaced by a thoughtful one, she walked slowly out of my field of vision, and then asked me to turn and face her. With my arms secured behind me, between the corset and the boots it was hard to rotate gracefully, but I managed and found myself facing both Margaret and a large, striking woman with long raven hair in front of a series of floor-length mirrors. After what seemed an eternity it dawned on me that the larger woman was me.

It took both Michael and Tammy to keep me from falling to the floor. I did not quite faint, but the shock of my appearance, the tight corset, and my bound arms made staying upright unlikely. I was re-seated on the stool, and someone released my wrists and took off the belt. Still facing the mirrors, I reached up carefully with my long nails and confirmed that the face in the mirror was actually me. I slowly stood and turned, mesmerized by my appearance. I was not even close to beautiful, but I was stunning. the long bangs of the wig came almost over my eyes, covering my now penciled-in eyebrows, and gave my face a seductive feminine mystique. More than a hint of cleavage showed from the neckline of the fitted cashmere sweater. My wide shoulders were set off by my posture and corseted waist.

The sweater and long skirt hid my masculine form, and hinted of a strong, sensual woman. Far different from my bearded male image a few hours earlier. And yet it felt right. Like I belonged in these clothes. I was in love. With my new image. I felt wonderful, and totally frightened. Who was I now? I carefully sat back down on the stool and began to cry. Margaret and Michael came over to me and held me until I was able to look at them.

Margaret spoke first. "I did not have this in mind when I brought you here. But Michael has a talent for bringing out the best in anyone. He must have seen a strong feminine side in you to even try something this extensive. But there is no question that you look far better dressed as a woman than you did when you first entered my shop. Something about you looks like it was just let free." Taking a tissue from her purse she carefully blotted away the tears. I shook my head.

"But I'm not gay, and straight men don't have long nails, or wear women's clothes, or cry like this." and I stopped, realizing how absurd it sounded with me dressed the was I was, crying my eyes out.

Michael spoke up softly. "No, you are not gay. I don't think you are even bisexual. I would have spotted either immediately. I should know. I've known I was gay since I was ten." I looked at him strangely. "And real men do dress the way you are dressed, although most will never look as feminine as you do, because they don't have the right attitude." He called over to Tammy. "Look at Tammy" I saw a young sturdy woman with a breathtaking figure and long, wavy hair. "She was one of my customers for two years before I realized she had a far more forceful air about her than most of the other young ladies that shop here. So I watched her and, when I was sure, I complemented her on her beautiful impersonation of a woman. She was startled but said that she was transgendered, and that I was the first one to read her in many years." Tammy blushed crimson, and smiled.

Tammy spoke. "I am a biological male who since I was four or five knew I was in the wrong body. When I started puberty I found that I was attracted to women in a male way, but I felt much better in what are traditionally considered women's roles, and clothes. Growing up in the San Francisco area, where sexual oddities are common, and with some help from a free clinic, I decided to live my life as a woman." She smiled a demure smile and arched her back to show off her figure.

"Even at twelve I had decided I wanted children. Because I started so young, I was able to combine cosmetic surgery with a very careful amount of hormones, a corset far tighter than yours, and special exercises to allow me to develop visibly as a female. Once Michael read me I figured I was finished in this town, but he assured me that I was far more feminine than most women, and had nothing to fear from him.

I had been working as a secretary in a dead-end job, so when his former assistant moved to Seattle, I applied for the sales position. That was two years ago. My wife, who most believe is my lesbian lover, gave birth to our son several months ago, and we hope to have another child in a couple more years."

I looked at her, nodding silently. Michael then remarked "many of the businessmen in this town, and elsewhere, wear women's underwear either because it excites them, they find it more comfortable, or they too have a feminine side that their business activities require them to keep secret. I should know," he chuckled " I sell them most of their special clothes when they can't find stuff elsewhere that fits."

It all felt so strange. Then a thought cut through to my consciousness, and I realized that I was only worrying about myself, and what would be the wife and kids reactions? I started to shake, and Margaret asked me what was wrong. When I explained, she held me and told me that telling the truth was the best method, but to expect a lot of adjustment problems. When I asked about "adjustment" she looked at me and asked if I wanted to change back to a masculine appearance again. My "No, wait Yes, Wait, I don't know" said it all.

Looking at her watch she asked if I wanted her to call my wife and tell her that there had been an accident at the salon, and that I wanted her to see me before I showed up and scared the children. She said she could convince my wife that I was physically OK but looked rather strange. I though for a moment and nodded.

Getting up she thanked Michael for all he had done, and told him to bill her insurance company for the cost of today's workover and any further clothing and assistance I needed to help me adjust. In a joking manner she said that they would probably much rather pay for some "special clothing and assistance" than a lawsuit for having turned someone bald. Michael spoke to Tammy and before we left I had a second, matching wig and several skirts, tops and underthings that they said would fit. Finally, Tommy went to the back, and brought out a second set of heeled boots, the same design as the first pair, but in a soft brown. We packed everything into Margaret's car and headed back to the mall. I was surprised that it was only five in the afternoon. It seemed like a week longer than forever.

When we went inside I knew everyone in the world was staring and laughing at me, but the only looks I observed were appreciative stares from the men, and jealous ones from the women. It took all of my effort to walk within the constraints of the heels and corset, and I found myself strutting with a very un-ladylike wriggle that made Margaret ask if I were out trolling. I blanched, and she chuckled.

In the bright lights of the mall I looked at my reflection in a mirror, and realized that I looked like a rather large, athletic, successful, middle-aged woman who was comfortable in her appearance. It felt so good I started to cry again, and Margaret had to drag me away from the mirror to the salon. Once there, neither Tina nor the receptionist recognized me. It was only when Margaret asked Tina to bring me my wallet and keys that recognition set in, and I thought she would scream. All she said was, "wow, that was some makeover," and, shaking her head, brought them to me. Margaret put them in the shoulder bag that Tammy had selected for me, and motioned me to join her in the office.

It took Margaret almost five minutes to convince my wife that she needed to see what I looked like before I went home. Margaret's excuse for me not being available on the phone was that I was still under the drier as they tried to repair my damaged hair. I managed not to laugh. It was almost six when my wife, looking harassed, came into the salon, looked around, and gave me the same disgusted look she often sends other women her age that she thinks are competition. Jessica asked the receptionist where the manager's office was, and headed to the back of the shop. I turned after she passed and carefully staggered on my heels back to the office behind her.

Margaret greeted her at the office door, and when Jessica demanded to see me, Margaret gently told her that she had passed me on the way in. She turned around, looking past me at the people in the salon. Turning back to Margaret she started to say something nasty, when the look on Margaret's face caused her to turn around again, and I smiled. Before anything intelligible came out of Jessica's open mouth, Margaret pulled her into the office and I followed and closed the door.

After throwing a fit and being shown what had happened to me, Jessica broke down and had a good cry. After much discussion Jessica said she did not understand why I liked looking like a woman, but said she loved me and that we would have see a counselor before she would accept what I had said. I agreed and asked what she wanted to do in the meantime. The pictures Margaret had taken of me at the salon just after the accident convinced Jessica that I looked really bad without my hair. Jessica made it clear that she was really not happy that I looked like a woman, especially one that now looked better than she did. Both Margaret and I detected a badly damaged ego behind the confusion.

After whispering a suggestion to Margaret, she nodded at me and told Jessica that she would do a makeover for her on the house, being sure there was no hair remover anywhere nearby. I urged Jessica to take up the offer, and promised her a new outfit and a really good seafood dinner out if she agreed. She looked at me and asked if I was crazy enough to go out the way I was dressed. I smiled and said that if she could not recognize me, then it was not too likely that anyone else would even have a clue. She nodded slowly, and Margaret pulled her out into the salon. As soon as they were gone I grabbed a telephone book and looked up Michael's shop. It took a minute to explain what I wanted, but Michael assured me that he Tammy would be there to fit Jessica with a really special outfit, including shoes, and would charge it to the salon. I hung up the phone with a smile and decided that -- if I survived -- it would be a night to remember.

Just before eight, Jessica and I walked out of the mall. Her hair was now dyed a deep golden blond, with just a few gray-white highlights, which set off her pale skin beautifully. It was blow-dried, so her natural curls ran wild. She was obviously confused as to why I insisted that she color her hair, but after a look in the mirror she strutted proudly right along side me, chiding me about having trouble with heels. I mentioned that mine were two inches higher than hers and she laughed. We took her truck as there was more room for me and the heels. It took some getting used to, and a couple of rather sudden stops for me to figure out how to maneuver the pedals. And some more not-so-good-natured ribbing from Jessica.

When we pulled into the parking area of the Boutique, Jessica got a bit nervous and told me that this was where she had heard all the prostitutes bought their clothes. I smiled and told her not to worry. We were met at the door by Michael, who found Tammy and took us all back to the area where I had been transformed. The sight of all the leather and lace seemed to make Jessica nervous, but I observed she was grinding her thighs together and that meant she was getting turned on. Thanks to the stuff that Michael had sprayed on me, the mind was stimulated, but the body seemed to ignore me.

I had her sit on the stool, and she agreed to let me blindfold her so her new outfit would be a complete surprise. She squirmed and continued to rub against the stool as Tammy fitted the blindfold. After Tammy lowered the cuffs and chain to the right height, I convinced Jessica to stand up and stretch just as I had. When I locked the cuffs on her wrists she started to scream, but Tammy already had the rubber ball in hand and all that came out was a squeak followed by soft grunts. After the strap was secured, I told Jessica to relax and enjoy. I rubbed my long nails over her now-stretched bottom. and she moaned and shuddered. Tammy was grinning from ear to ear.

Michael came over to us with a measuring tape, and with Tammy's and my help had a wriggling Jessica down to bra and panties in a minute. I removed her bra, and her huge, stiff nipples told me just how hot she really was. After taking her measurements Michael and Tammy headed off to get Jessica's new outfit ready. When Michael returned he motioned to me to remove her panties, and I hesitated, but he simply reached over and pulled them down. Jessica started to fight and kick, but a swift swat on her backside by Tammy got her attention. I could smell her arousal, and her panties were soaked. After getting a towel and mopping her muff as she squirmed, Tammy pulled out a pair of satin tap pants in burgundy, and slid them up her legs and over her hips.

This was followed by a belt similar to the one used on me, and within minutes of maneuvering Jessica was covered in a burgundy silk chemise and wrapped in a matching burgundy satin corset. After re-securing her hands above her, Michael quickly laced her down to a waist size she had not seen since her teens. Once the shoulder straps of the corset were tightened, Tammy pulled out the dress they had selected for Jessica. It was dark green silk and both zipped and laced up the back. It took some maneuvering to get it over her arms without letting her get free, but once the dress was in place I could see why Tammy picked it. It covered everything but Jessica's pale breasts, and the very top of the burgundy chemise and corset. Although it reached the floor, the panels of the skirt swung apart to reveal a burgundy satin underskirt and her legs up to mid-thigh. A pair of sheer seamed stockings, attached to the garters of her corset, completed the outfit.

Re-securing her wrists behind her, we took her to the shoe area, and shortly she was laced into a pair of matching green boots, with heels as high as mine. With her much smaller feet, they made her look like she was almost on tiptoe. After a careful review by Michael and Tammy of their handiwork, they went to find her some jewelry. Long silver bangle earrings soon hung from her ears, and a finely wrought silver and black-leather choker circled her neck. After receiving assurance that she would not try to go anywhere, her wrists were freed, her watch removed, and matching silver bracelets were placed on her wrists.

She was then led, still blindfolded and gagged, into the same mirrored area where I first saw myself. Tammy carefully removed the gag, wiped her face, and gave her some water, cautioning her to keep her hand at her sides. Michael told her to keep her eyes closed, removed the blindfold, repaired some minor damage to her makeup, and left her alone with me. I faced her towards the mirrors, stood beside her, and told her to open her eyes. The look on her face was phenomenal. With her out-thrust bosom and narrow waist she stood regally next to me, looking for a moment as if she wanted to scream. Slowly she pirouetted in her heels in front of the mirrors, raking her now inch-long burgundy nails lightly over her corseted figure, and partially exposed breasts. When she looked back at me all I saw in her eyes was pure lust.

One crushing hug and several minutes later I managed to get my mouth free of hers, and unwrap her from me. The glazed look she gave me told me what was going through her mind, but I knew that we needed to get going so I took her in tow and wobbled out to the front. Michael and Tammy took one look at her, and gave me a silent thumbs-up. Handing me a shoulder bag that matched her corset, and a bag containing her clothes, Michael whispered to me that he did not think I would have any further problems with her. We made a really striking pair trying to maneuver across the parking lot, me in heels and her trying to grind her body against mine.

Dinner was wonderful. I had not had that much devoted attention from her in a long time. I have a feeling there were more than a few people who wondered why two women, one strangely striking, the other beautiful, were sharing long amorous kisses and obviously sensual hugs. I asked Jessica if she was embarrassed to be hugging another woman, and her hungry reply was "not with this woman." There followed a bit of slow dancing at the restaurant after dinner, and I had to clamp my mouth over Jessica's to stifle her moans when she came several times on the dance floor while rubbing herself against me.

We headed home just before midnight. Neither of the kids was awake, which saved quite a bit of explaining. We made for the bedroom, where it took us almost forever to get out of the corsets and take off the makeup. Jessica was still over-aroused, but the stuff Michael had used on me made that plan unworkable, so she settled for giving me a full body rub using her breasts and lips. Even without an erection I had a powerful, lingering orgasm. We slept until almost noon on Saturday and Jessica, in her new blonde hair and me in fresh makeup and wearing my wig, came out to the table and started explaining what was going on to the kids. It was the longest Saturday of my life.


I live full-time as a woman now, but have not changed hobbies or my educational goals. Rather than trying to pass as a woman, I simply try to look my best. It works most of the time. That is unless I am fully corseted and dressed to the hilt, when I seem to pass without difficulty. I think it is the way I present myself, for when I think and feel and act like a woman, people see me as one, despite the physical differences. And I am learning, albeit slowly, a complete set of female mannerisms. It gets easier daily.

It has been several months since the incident at the salon. We found a good counselor and with his help have managed to keep the family together and functioning. All of us have lost some acquaintances who could not tolerate the change, and found out who our real friends are. I have made several new friends too, as I guess I am much more open and friendly when enfemme. The wife has taken to wearing a corset all the time, and is exercising daily. She looks fifteen years younger, dresses to be noticed rather than to blend in, and acts like a sex-crazed teenager around me. I remember when I could sleep without being disturbed. Oh well.

Even the kids say I'm a nicer person, much less stressed. I think I am more intimidating to the school system and most other bureaucratic functions as a woman. For them I wear full corset, heels, and warpaint. They don't know how to act. So they take the path of least resistance and give me what I want.

I can even put on a masculine demeanor when needed, now that my eyebrows and a little hair have grown out, but I do it only under duress. I have started electrolysis to eliminate having to do full-body chemical hair removal twice a week. Jessica originally suggested an implement of torture called an Epilady. I think she has a sadistic streak.

Beginning shortly I will start taking a low dose of hormones. Since I have no plans for any more children, functionality is all that really matters, and I want bigger, more sensitive nipples. I will be getting breast implants courtesy of the insurance company once my breasts have changed. Thanks to a sympathetic doctor and a good lawyer I now have identification showing me as woman. My retired military ID even shows my new female name, Samantha Michelle.



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