The Fortune Teller

By Lorna Samuels

with deepest gratitude and thanks to

Sarabeth Sipple

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


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



*******************


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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

I shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

"Ah? A penny for your thoughts."

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

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

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

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

"W..What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How's that?" I countered.

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

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

"What's that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How's that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I choked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could guess her reasons but I asked anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I mumbled an incoherent response.

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

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

WHEW!!

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

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

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

"Oh damn!" I gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yea, I suppose."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now let's do your face."

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

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

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

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

"See how much you missed?"

"Uh huh," was all I managed.

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

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

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

"What are you doing?"

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

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

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

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

My left cheek was reddened as Angie instructed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wrong," she insisted.

"B. .But I thought."

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

"My what?" I gaped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lips sealed tight, I shook my pageboy.

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

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



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



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

SPECIAL PROJECTS

Authorized Personnel ONLY



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can we go now?" I prodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Comfy?" he/she drawled.

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I mumbled agreement.

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

Another girlish grunt and nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My response was a defeated, "uh huh."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Huh! What's left?'

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

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

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

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

"Not quite yet."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perfect!" I said.

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

So, we were ready!



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks to you," my mate responded.

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

Jason offered, "No, just arrived."

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded and flashed a grin at Murtelli.

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

Nod.

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

Only another smiling nod.

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

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

"HA!" was his derisive reply. "And how, pray tell, did you earn such a
substantial reward? By mooching off our studio's resources?" Jason was
obviously about to explode our little