Posted by: Admin on Tuesday, July 30, 2002 - 01:25 AM 
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The Fortune Teller
Part 3
by Lorna Samuels
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 surprise all over the room when Mr. Murtelli turned to me. "Angela, my dear, what sort of game is your husband playing?"
Momentarily, I wondered at his knowing Angie's name, but lost the thought instantly when Jason turned and handed me the 'match'. "Tell 'im, honey." S/he grinned broadly and nodded encouragement.
Glancing toward the heavens for strength, I batted long dark lashes and stepped forward, promptly creating a little "chesty quake" which Murtelli and others had been all too willing to appreciate.
With his gaze momentarily diverted by my bogus assets, I gulped air and called up the most Marilyn Monroe-like breathy soprano I could muster, pointed a long lacquered nail at his nose, then at 'Jason', and myself in turn, and lit the fuse. "Sir, you will kindly refer to my wife and myself by our proper names, please. It would be most appreciated."
There was a sudden and total silence for at least five heartbeats as the fuse burned down. Then the explosion of comprehension was followed by a few giggles and 'what the..'s as the realization of what I'd just revealed hit almost everyone at once. Then there was instant pandemonium, with most reactions being of the predictable variety: awe, surprise, shock, and disbelief.
Nearby, Doris spastically gasped, MNNNNoooo.., nnno000.., ....eeeeoooo...!"
The Chief patiently allowed the tumult to run its course for all of five minutes, while calmly examining every millimeter of our disguises (with special emphasis on my bosom). His expression was almost neutral, although the hooded eyes studied us in minute detail
With a final decisive nod, he gestured for silence. "OK, folks, let's calm down for a moment, shall we? ...Thank you. I still have an important decision to make." This last aimed at us. Then he turned again to Sonya, indicating us expansively. "You did this?" he accused somewhat gruffly.
Her response revealed the pride she took in her work. "Sure did! Pretty good, huh?" she replied with a smug grin while approaching and planting a firm kiss on The Chief's-flushed cheek. "Goth, Pop!"
It was our turn to be flabbergasted!
"His daughter?" I asked inanely, realizing that he'd delayed his choice because his own daughter was one of the 'finalists'.
Her confirming nod was accompanied by a broad grin. "Yup, that's lit'l ol' me. I've been racking my brain for months trying to set up Dad for a good fall. But I didn't want it to hurt." She hugged 'Daddy' lovingly. "So, when Angie asked for my help, well, I just jumped at the plan. It was ideal No one hurt, no bruised egos, and no recriminations. Right, Dad?"
"...uh, yea, sure.." he muttered. Murtelli couldn't seem to keep his eyes off my cleavage. To Ange-as-Jason and me, he said, "I insisted on the prize going to the most deserving couple. Well, you're right, you do deserve it. It's yours! Congratulations, ..and no hard feelings either."
"Wow! Do you ever deserve it!" Shaking his head in resignation (or was it disbelief?), he glanced at my bosom once more. Aside to Sonya, he whispered, 'The voices too?"
"Great, huh?"
"Incredible," he breathed.
A low rumble of approval came from the crowd, but reaction was hesitant until The Chief added his applause to the growing din. As we took our bows (I curtsied girlishly), I realized that the building ovation was a tribute to our disguises even more than to the fact that we'd won the Five Grand plus guaranteed employment.
Now came the time I'd dreaded most. However convincing a woman I appeared to be, I was, by definition, "in drag". And I was in public, standing before a group of over two hundred fellow workers and strangers who now knew my true identity. The impersonation, the ACT, was cancelled! I was now Jason Delaney, a guy who had allowed himself to be transformed beyond any possible recognition into a buxom twin of his wife. I was ME again, or rather, I had to be Jason again, not Angie.
As it turned out, my concern over being derided or scorned or laughed at by coworkers, friends, and strangers alike was unfounded. Incredibly, and to my great relief, the only uncomfortable part was trying to convince Doris that my ample jugs were fake, that I was REALLY the male person named Jason whom she'd pursued so vigorously. Her persistent questioning of the idea that I had willingly volunteered to do all this indicated her rapidly declining opinion regarding my manhood, but I ignored her growing disdain. She was a pest anyway. I even wondered about the genuineness of her friendship with Ange, even acre so now than after fending off her deliberate play for me. Whatever her desires toward me, they were visibly decreasing with considerable speed as the evening progressed toward midnight. If this adventure accomplished nothing else, I thought, her coolness was reward enough.
At Sonya's whispered insistence, Angela and I volunteered as little as possible about the means used to accomplish our exquisite facades, allowing only that Sonya's Special Projects Division should draw most of the credit. Interestingly, our altered voices received the greatest number of comments, but we honored Sonya's wishes and politely played ignorant, referring all questioners to her. Before too long I noticed that not a few men and women were giving me surreptitious sidelong glances, sometimes even outright staring, evidently either intimidated or chagrined by my appearance. (Was that envy I saw in that waiter's stare? Or lust!?) At first, these adverse reactions were disturbing, but the number of compliments we both were receiving vastly outnumbered the negative aspects.
Gradually, I began to take pride in our accomplishment, and started enjoying the plaudits and interested conversations, often enjoying the way people reacted to my presence now that all knew who I really was. Generally the men, discomfited by my pseudo-female appearance, quickly drifted away, leaving the women to tolerate my approach.
It didn't take me long to learn that high-heels might look great, but they definitely weren't made for comfortable walking, or even standing, much less long stretches on the dance floor. Well, at least not when they're on my feet. My discomfort was eventually noticed by a very pleasant middle-aged lady who offered a politely concerned invitation to sit and talk with her over a plate of delicious food from the buffet. My feet were ever so grateful when 1 accepted. Between bites, I told her what I did at the studio, she revealed her passion for photography, and it turned out to be a most pleasant and relaxing conversation. Not to mention the extreme gratitude expressed by my feet, legs, and ankles for the chance to recover from their recent strenuous activity.
We were discussing my work in the Lab when Ange-as-me approached and I realized I'd neither seen nor thought of her for several minutes.
'Come on, Honey, we have a date," the still-basso voice droned evenly.
"Huh?"
"You promised you'd take me to meet Lady Corinne." The grin was decidedly self-satisfied, devious even.
"I did not!" I insisted, then recalled my earlier incognito exchange with Doris. Oh no! I pleaded girlishly, "..aaah, come on, Hon, please? That doesn't count! I was playing you. You can't hold me to it."
She (readjustment of pronouns now that we need no longer play-act), grabbed my painted digits firmly and pulled me from the chair. "You said, and I quote, 'Jason has to see her now. You can't avoid it'."
"Trust you to make me eat my words," I retorted, "especially when that ol' Battle Axe is concerned."
A finger waggled before my nose. "Now, you be nice and ladylike, ya hear. Don't embarrass me!"
I didn't answer as we passed beneath an ivy-covered arbor of ornately crafted ironwork, which allowed access through the tall hedge that enclosed the large ornamental garden. Then I was busy negotiating the gravel path, desperately trying to place each heel properly to avoid a broken ankle. My senses reeled as breasts giggled fluidly, starched crinoline crackled softly against my thighs, heavy pendant earrings tapped at my neck and pulled at my tender recently-pierced lobes, soft wavelets brushed my neck and shoulders. In combination with the heavy fragrances of grass, trees, bushes, and flowers, it was a heady mixture.
The gazebo at the path's end was draped completely in a black cloth that was covered with Astral runes and symbols, the door flap hanging open. A faint odor of incense drifted toward us on the light breeze as we approached. While I wondered at Murtelli's reason for ruining the western theme of his Party by inviting a pseudo-gypsy, she appeared in the dark entryway.
For some time now I had avoided Lady Corinne's presence, but had been curious enough to have seen pictures of her. Yet, I was nonetheless surprised by her physical presence. Lady Corinne was a powerful (even if fake) force, just as much so in her own way as Murtelli was in his. Maybe more, since her personal following was probably the larger. I never questioned her leadership ability, or her charismatic appeal, only her authenticity! I had long since grudgingly acknowledged her abilities, but now her obviously diminutive (dare I say minuscule?) form beneath the voluminous black robe and hood gave me reason to doubt even what I'd conceded. (The song "Short People" came to mind instantly.) Granted, you shouldn't "judge a book by its cover", but I was adamant enough about my well- nurtured prejudice toward her to grasp for anything that would discourage Angela's further involvement with her.
Lady Corinne was barely five feet tall! Beneath the cowl was a pale, wrinkled, yet ageless face. The billowing robe obscured further details of her frame, but she was not fat. Not even her feet could be seen, only her face and a few thin wisps of white hair which poked from within the hood.
"Lady," Angela greeted, bowing her (my?) head with solemn formality. "May I present my husband, Jason Delaney." Then to me, "Honey, this is The Lady Corinne."
Totally ignoring the disparity of our appearance, the 'Lady" only barely acknowledged me with a slight gesture of her hand.
Forcing a weak grimace/smile, I returned silence for silence.
"My Dear Angela, you're not exactly the prettiest woman here tonight." Her reedy voice addressed my wife, making a small but weak (to me) effort at light humor.
Angie laughed heartily. "No, Lady Corinne, but Jason might be." My elbow in her ribs only fired her mirth. "Nay we have a reading, Lady?" she added between chuckles.
A small quirk at one corner of wrinkled lips was her- only response to Angie's own attempt at levity. You are welcome to a Reading at any time, my dear Angela. You know that very well. However, do you wish for your husband to participate also? And does he wish to do so? I've been given to understand that he has certain . .uh.. reservations about such things."
For the first time Her eyes turned and met mine. They were deep set in shadow beneath pale brows. I was immediately struck by their color, Pink!
On occasion I've been accused of not always being real quick on the uptake, mostly by Angela, so it took me at least two microseconds to add together the pale ghostly complexion and extraordinary pink iris's and come up with ... Albino!' The pictures I'd seen must have been touched up, since they always showed her as rather matronly and unassuming. Ha! Whatever this woman standing before me might be, gypsy, fortune teller, witch, or con artist extraordinaire, she was not what her pictures tried to make her into. This Lady was hard, maybe callous, and certainly tough. And all this just from eye contact!
Our eyes were locked for a few seconds until I finally addressed her for the first time. "If you know my wife so well, you also know what I think of you and your well-designed theatrics. You bet I have reservations!" My soprano voice carried none of the weight I'd intended but the point was made, I hoped.
Her self-assured (arrogant?) smile of perfect white teeth was aggravating until I realized she was taunting me. I know you very well indeed, Mr. Delaney, certainly more intimately than you could ever imagine. If you dare, you may enter and thereby gain some small understanding of how misguided are your doubts." Before I could compose an appropriate response she had whirled about with a billow of black cloak and disappeared into the gloom of the draped gazebo, obviously intending us to follow.
"This is idiotic, Angie. Let's go home." I turned to leave.
A firm grip caught my retreating arm. "You said yourself that this could not be avoided any longer. Besides, you're embarrassing me to death!" Through clenched teeth she added, "Now let's go in and you can sit through a simple Reading. Nothing to it..., and it'll only cost you a few minutes of your precious time. Afterward, I'll gladly go home with you and we can strip off these suffocating costumes and disguises. Okay?"
The 'carrot dangling' promise of recovering my maleness was irresistible. "Well, very well. But remember, I do this under duress."
Angie's sudden smile turned into laughter, her eyes wavering over my bulging figure. "Yea, hehehe.., you're doin' it under a dress ...for sure!"
Chagrined at my 'Freudien slip' (damn..did it again!), I insisted, "...and no charlatan tricks are gonna convince me that gypsy is genuine either!"
"Quiet down! She'll her you!"
"What sort of quackery can she pull with a stupid palm reading anyway?" I shrilled more loudly.
With only the greatest luck was I able to stagger along and avoid either severely turning an ankle or simply falling flat on my face as Angie destroyed my already precarious balance (ultra-high heels on gravel) with a stiff tug at my arm. By the time I recovered we had negotiated the two broad wooden steps and entered the gloom of the "tent" beyond.
From the outside, the circular gazebo had looked quite large, even in the semi-adequate light from several widely placed antique gaslights along the garden path. However, the interior formed by the black drapes allowed hardly enough space for a little table and three wicker chairs, one of which Lady Corinne occupied.
The small oval table was covered with an unadorned black cloth that fell almost to the floor, ending in long black tassels. On it sat a small stand upon rested a crystal-clear globe of glass that was only slightly smaller that soccer ball. Behind and flanking the seated Gypsy Woman were two six-foot candlesticks, each holding a single huge candle that guttered yellow-orange flame.
"Not exactly the most original decor," I observed half aloud in Angie's direction.
The Gypsy almost certainly overheard, though her expression remained stoic as we occupied the two remaining seats. With Angie at my left, I placed my padded buns on the hard wooden chair, my spine board-straight to avoid undue strain on my midsection from the reinforced fabric encasing it. I was extremely conscious of the image I presented to Corinne's hooded stare. Whereas, before she'd hardly acknowledged me, now the level emotionless stare and glances toward my ersatz endowments reminded me of the looks I got from men at the Party earlier, both before and after they knew my true gender. Despite my best efforts, the sense that those albino eyes were penetrating to my very soul made me twitch slightly on the hard seat. A trail of perspiration tracked its way down the crease of my spine.
The heavy stillness stretched into minutes as a test of wills seemed to develop, me trying to achieve and maintain a glare of mute animosity, while She succeeded all too well at making me self-conscious about my feminine guise under her steady stare. Or maybe she was just mad about my comment concerning her decorator's talents? Whatever our separate thoughts may have been, the only absolute was our mutual dislike for each other.
Perhaps five long minutes of stony silence elapsed before Angie's warm fingers sought out and clasped my clammy hands. Her deep male tone sliced through the tension. "May we have the Reading now, please, M'Lady?" she asked with a reverently whispered appellation not heard since King Arthur's day. Her twitching excitement revealed an eagerness for this 'reading", sure sign of a true believer. She seemed totally oblivious to the tension between her Guru and her beboobed hubby.
With a burst of sudden insight, I realized that the flames of my hatred for Corinne were fanned by my jealousy of Angela's devotion to her, a mach deeper commitment than I had ever been able to enjoy from her.
Although my doubts as to Corinne's genuineness were no less grave, my sudden understanding of at least part of what fanned the heat of my prejudice had me truly embarrassed. Angie probably interpreted my sudden blush beneath the rouge as anger, which it partly was, but aimed at myself as much as at Corinne, ....and at Angie too, I realized!
Wanting only to expedite matters so we could leave the pressing closeness of the 'room' and the now overpowering odor of incense, I said, "Yeah, so let's get this charade over with. Is this a palm reading, or what?" My tight-lipped tone was designed to irk her, hopefully abbreviating our meeting by doing so.
It had no apparent effect as she grinned lopsidedly toward Ann. Giving the impression that she'd just returned from a great distance, her voice was soft and hollow. "Yes, that is our purpose here, isn't it? Yes indeed."
She stared fixedly at the glass ball for a few seconds, during which I sighed loudly to express my impatience. Crystal Ball indeed!! How camp could you get! I half expected mist to roil up within the glass while Corinne's caressed it with her gnarled wrinkled fingers and droned the "Aahh.., I see." bit.
Instead, she picked up the ball and stand with smooth manicured hands that could have belonged to a woman less than half her age. 'We'll dispense with this." With exaggerated care, she placed the Ball and stand on the floor behind her seat, then spread both hands on the table before her, palms up.
"Your hands, please?" she requested of us both.
Angie had anticipated the request, after all it was a Reading and I figured she knew well enough what was expected of us, if anything. But my fingers with their long manicured nails were still folded in my lap. I wanted to leave, and didn't want to submit to these farcical theatrics. Unfortunately, I had to do the latter to achieve the former. Getting expectant looks from both women, I waited a few seconds before matching Angie's example, my hands joined hers on the table, palms up, but as far from Corinne's as possible.
It didn't matter. She didn't touch us. At least not yet.
Her concentrated stare at our upturned palms lasted several minutes. Slowly, a broad grin curled her lips and those strange penetrating eyes again searched our faces.
"I see that you both have certain deep-seated desires which you hide within yourselves, but you also nurture them with great can." Her expression and tone caused a chill to course down my spine.
Desires? Sure, mine was obvious, but only to me since I'd never shared it with anyone else, Key, my current costume/disguise was my ultimate fantasy come true, right? But what was Angie's? I wondered, watching her ruddy pseudo-maleness turn suddenly ashen, the blood drained from her bewhiskered face. Did Corinne really 'read' us both so deeply? (Assuming that Angie actually had something to hide.) Or was Corinne just being theatrical? After all, almost everyone has some secrets they never tell, not even to a priest or spouse.
I was about to make another comment about her 'talents' when Corinne suddenly grabbed both my hands. Words of protest stuck in my throat. Her hands were unpleasantly warm, as though she had a high fever. Deftly, she arranged our hands in a pile at the table's center: her right on the bottom, then Angie's right and mine, all palm up; followed by Angie's, my, and Her left, all palm down. I was too busy observing to object, hoping desperately to discover what, if any, fakery was present. Figuratively and somewhat literally, she had a captive audience.
Corinne s smile was even broader now, but tight, strained, impatient as she addressed me. "Mr. Delaney, I have endured your caustic and uninformed insults via your wife for quite some time now. You are wrong, you know. Dead wrong!" My sputtering snicker earned me an arched eyebrow, and that smile stretched into a rictus grin. 'Very well, sir. Since you continue your derision.."
Her strange eyes slowly closed, her face went suddenly slack and her head bowed. A moment later, I noticed that her hand covering mine at the top of our little pyramid was becoming noticeably warmer, its temperature rising by the second until the heat was so uncomfortable Z tried to extract my fingers. I was stuck despite her feather-light touch! I couldn't budge my hand, almost like we were clued together. My resolve faded for an instant. How the hell could such a tiny woman maintain such a grip without any apparent effort? And how did she heat her hand? I was certain that it had to be some sort of trick. It just simply had to! There was nothing under the table when I kicked a high- heel around beneath it, catching Angie's shin and getting an annoyed glance in the process. Eagerly, I searched for any clues, but my hands were captive and the candlelight made eyesight inadequate at best. ...Ah, of course! I thought. She had something hidden that would be easily spotted in decent light. My resolve strengthened. I'd figure out a way to get back here tomorrow and check the place out in the daylight.
Meanwhile, I could only watch closely and be patient, hard as that was to do at the moment since my hand felt like it was being slowly roasted. Beads of perspiration on Angie's forehead and her uneasy squirming showed that she felt likewise. Apparently, her discomfort was not eased by her fervor.
After a short pause, Lady Corinne's head came up slowly, and her glazed pink-white eyes stared at our stacked hands. The heat subsided suddenly. "Jason.. Angela.." She glanced at us in turn. "In all my dealings with humanity, never have I read such unfulfilled yearnings, such unquenched desire in anyone, and certainly never in two persons so intertwined, so closely bound both physically and psychically as yourselves."
She spoke to Angela affectionately. "My Dear, you have seen for yourself that my talents are a force for good in an otherwise evil world." (Ange nodded eagerly as only a true believer could.) "..but I'll also be the first to admit, for your husband's benefit, that I am a show-woman. I love theatrics, and freely admit their use on occasion, this tent being a perfect example of the trappings I assume in the course of my work." She turned to me, her eyes glowing like pale embers, and the passion of fanaticism in her words. "However, Mr. Delaney, I am no storefront reader of tea leaves. My abilities are real, very real. What they are specifically and their source, ...well, you will never know. Yet, it is obvious from what I read in you both that can be of some service."
Straightening noticeably but maintaining the pyramid, she said, "Rarely have I used the full potential of my GIFT. But you two now offer me a challenge that I cannot and dare not resist. Angela, my Sweet, your unwavering faith has earned you a gift of great value. Jason, your blind skepticism has earned you a sign by which you shall know as certainly as does Angela that my power is real, not a contrivance of a crazed ego."
Raising her eyes upward, she continued loudly, as if in supplication to someone (or some thing) far overhead. "Rasha.., I call upon thee! Set upon me the boon I seek. Herewith and hereafter, bestow upon these, thy children, that which their deepest wish might be."
Good grief, I grumbled silently. How corny can you get? Then it got cornier. The candle flames fluttered and my abundant flow of hair stirred in a nonexistent draft.
Lady Corinne's eyes returned to us as she declared almost inaudibly as if suddenly exhausted. "My Beloved. It is done!" With a rasping whisper, she mysteriously added, "Look to the witching hour for your fulfillment." Her head slumped until her cowled head rested on the table and she was still.
{continued}
Read Part 1 or Part 2 or Part 4
Note: body suits appliances attached stuck
Read Part 1 or Part 2 or Part 3 or Part 4 |
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