Posted by: Admin on Tuesday, July 30, 2002 - 01:13 AM 
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The Fortune Teller
Part 2
by Lorna Samuels
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.
{continued}
Read Part 1 or Part 3 or Part 4
Note: TG body suits appliances attached stuck
Read Part 1 or Part 2 or Part 3 or Part 4 |
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