The Three Faces Of Paul free porn video

Well, it has been a long time, but at last here's another of Leigh's infamous tall tales. This one is strictly for the masochists among us. If that's not your cup of tea, you might want to move on right now. Enjoy. THREE FACES OF PAUL (Copyright 1991 by Leigh de Santa Fe) Laura Black waited patiently in Dr. Angela Wolfe's office for her first session with the therapist. With her shoulder length ash blonde hair and attractive features made up with an obviously professional care she resembled a young model more than the troubled newlywed she actually was. Wearing a crisply starched white blouse opened far enough to reveal the tiny lacy scallops that coursed across the top of her bra and a snug beige skirt, she had caused many men's heads to turn on her way up to Dr. Wolfe's office. When at last the door opened and a man with a monocle and goatee appeared in the doorway, Laura jumped up to greet him. "Dr. Wolfe . . ." The man stared at her in a puzzled manner for a moment and then said, "No, I'm not Dr. Wolfe." "I'm Dr. Wolfe," an attractive black-haired woman said, her face rising like a white moon behind the man with monocle. He left hastily. The two women smiled at each other for a moment as Laura's face turned very red. "Don't be embarrassed. It happens all the time," Dr. Wolfe said, ushering Laura into her darkened office. "It's just that I . . ." "Please, don't say it." "Of course, you probably hear it a lot," Laura said, sitting on the edge of an overstuffed recliner. But it wasn't just Dr. Wolfe's gender that had her flustered. It was her dark beauty, a beauty which matched her own in a totally different key. Accustomed to using her own loveliness as a means of extracting what she wanted from the world it was discomfiting to find herself confronted with an unnervingly attractive equal in a situation in which she had unconsciously hoped to use her looks to manipulate the therapeutic situation to her advantage. Dr. Wolfe's reaction to Laura was no less instinctual. She wanted her immediately. Over the course of the hour as Laura poured her heart out, Dr. Wolfe dispensed the kleenex and watched the blonde's bosom heaving beneath the blouse with intense interest and began to formulate plans for her seduction. As the therapeutic hour drew to a close Dr. Wolfe said, "Well, it sounds to me as though your husband should come in as well." "You mean, together." "No, I thought separately at first." Laura seemed relieved. "Well, I'll ask him but I . . ." "Just have him in come in once. I'm sure we'll work something out," Dr. Wolfe said reassuringly. Laura smiled brightly, looking into Dr. Wolfe's eyes deeply for the first time since her arrival. The intensity she found there intimidated her and she soon averted her gaze again. "I'll try," Laura said as she picked up her purse and turned back once more to look at Dr. Wolfe. The therapist was leaning against the door jamb in decidedly dreamy way. "Goodbye, Laura," she said, brushing a dark strand of hair out of face. Laura smiled nervously and left. * * * Paul Black leaned back in the soft leatherette upholstery and closed his eyes. He didn't want to be here and it showed in the furrows discontent was sowing on his brow. Laura had badgered him for weeks about visiting Dr. Wolfe. Made his life miserable day and night in fact. She had raved about her success with Dr. Wolfe and had never once mentioned that A) Dr. Wolfe was an attractive woman and B) a hypnotherapist. Now after he had caved in, made an appointment and was sitting in the austere waiting room it was too late to back out. She'd seen him. When he opened the door to her 3rd floor office a bell had rung and an attractive woman had appeared. He assumed this was Dr. Wolfe's secretary but that was quickly dispelled when she said, "Mr. Black? I'll be with you in about ten minutes. Have a seat won't you?" Her smile was warm but exuded a severity that precluded him exiting after she disappeared into her office. Dressed in a white blouse with a large bow tie and a tight sheath skirt that displayed an admirable derriere she seemed an odd mixture of career woman and tart and perhaps it was this that caused him to stay. Still, his irritation overrode his curiosity and fear of embarrassment and when the ten minutes were up and the previous patient, a young man whose eyes were red from crying, walked past him he was roiling and ready for a disagreeable hour. "Come in, Mr. Black," Dr. Wolfe said revealing a set of wholesomely perfect teeth. The room was plain with a bookcase and desk and a couple of chairs that faced each other obliquely. One a straightbacked arm chair, the other a plush, overstuffed recliner. She motioned for him to sit in the latter. Its opulence and comfort made him balk and his hesitation prompted her to say, "It's okay. It hasn't swallowed anyone so far." Though when he sat down the chair indeed appeared to dwarf his slight frame. Though it was obviously intended to put him at ease, this remark put him off even more. She picked up a pad and pencil from her desk top and sat down glancing at her watch as she did so. "Now your wife tells me you've been having some sexual difficulties." He blanched. How could she betray him. Through clenched teeth he said, "She did, did she?" "Oh, that hit a nerve, didn't it. Well, Mr. Black, presumably that's why we're here. Perhaps I should have started a little slower but you struck me as a man who hates to waste time. Was I right about that?" "No, I uh. Yes, I suppose right now I am." "Well, let's begin then. Lie back in your chair please and take a few deep breaths. That's it, now close your eyes. I'm going to begin counting back from 100 and I want you to concentrate on nothing but the sound of my voice. When I reach 50 you will be utterly relaxed, utterly at peace and ready to probe your unconscious." A smirk crossed over his face like a cloud as he listened to her talk and it was not unnoticed by Dr. Wolfe who nonetheless began counting. When she reached 45 she said to him, "Mr. Black, you are now in a state of complete serenity, your body is released from tension and you feel as though you are floating over the chair not sitting in it. Your mind is separate now traveling to where it finds its safety and peace. Where does it find you?" "At the laundromat." "And what are you doing there?" "My laundry," he said, contemptuous laughter bubbling out of his mouth. Dr. Wolfe was not used to being deceived. Her face turned red with anger and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. He never opened his eyes but smiled gleefully, happy for the first time since he'd arrived. "Mr. Black, you're not a believer in hypnosis are you?" "Not so far," he said with a grin. "Think it's a hoax?" "I didn't say that. Maybe under different circumstances . . ." "You mean, if I were a man?" He opened his eyes and looked at her in anger, "I didn't say that either." "Alright, let's both calm down," she said glad to at least have roused him out of his smugness. "Let's take a different tack, shall we?" she said. He felt patronized. "This time I want you to lean forward with your eyes open and . . ." " . . . stare into your eyes?" he said laughing. She stopped, caught herself and continued, "No, stare into this," she said, removing the black bow tie with a flourish and producing an amber amulet from her bosom. "I'd rather stare into those," he said fixing his eyes on her breasts with a theatrically unsavory look. Dr. Wolfe ignored this. She had set her goal now and nothing he said could stop her. "Stare into the amulet as it waves gently back and forth. Back and forth, back and forth . . ." Something about the new authority her voice commanded made him sit up and follow her instructions. He was now only inches from her and his eyes wandered up from the amulet to her face which was actually quite lovely or would be if her hair weren't tied back in a bun and her glasses could be mislaid. Since removing her bow her blouse opened far enough to reveal a pair of breasts which seemed to heave to the rhythm of the swaying amulet. "The amulet, Mr. Black," Dr. Wolfe said sternly and automatically his eyes shifted back to the amber tear drop. The closeness of her body and her perfume seemed to perform the intoxicating feat that her earlier efforts had failed to achieve and as he watched the dark jewel swing back and forth between her breasts his cynicism peeled away. For a brief moment he had the uncomfortable sensation of sitting before her stark naked. That passed quickly into an obliviousness that she plumbed by snapping her fingers under his nose with a bored grace. Then she got up from her chair and walked over to her desk. He stared straight ahead. She pulled a flask from her desk drawer, took a long drink and watched him. He seemed more like a bad sculpture than a human being. A smile moved across her face as she unfastened the ribbon that held her hair back, letting it fall loosely around her face, took off her glasses and moved to the wall where she removed the painting and switched on the video camera. Then she sat down in her chair. Under the influence of her spell the ferocious aspect of his features slackened and revealed a surprisingly delicate face with smooth white skin and full red lips. "You look uncomfortable, Mr. Black. Please lean back into your chair and relax." He did. "Now we're going to play a game. I'm going to make up the rules and you're going to follow them. Please nod if you understand." He nodded. "Alright. The first rule is this: whenever you hear the word PANTYHOSE you will become a woman and the second rule is whenever you hear the word CIGARETTE you will become a man again. Now I don't want you to become just any woman. I want you to be a meek, submissive woman who wants nothing more than to please, to be pretty and to serve. All your energies as a woman will be devoted to being beautiful and being a obedient little miss. Nothing makes you happier than to dress up for your man and make him happy. To be lovely, feminine and weak is to be in ecstasy. Nod if you understand." He nodded. "Now we'll have a test to see how well you learned the rules. PANTYHOSE." Paul seemed to shrink in the enormous leather chair. The fierce aggression that had been present only moments before was replaced with a palpable discomfort. "What's wrong, Paul?" "I hate these clothes," he said, picking at his pants with his fingers. His voice seemed to come from a different part of his throat, still deep but now petulantly feminine. Bitchy. "What's wrong with them, Paul?" "They're for men," he said with disgust. "Aren't you a man, Paul?" He looked at her in shock and blushed. "No, I'm a girl." "What kind of a girl are you, Paul?" He blushed again and with considerable coyness, said, "A cocktease." "A cocktease. What would you rather be wearing?" "Oh, I don't know," he said, suddenly shy. "Something that shows off your . . . charms, perhaps?" Dr. Wolfe said cupping her hands over her breasts suggestively. "Yes, but I'm hard to buy for." "Why's that?" Dr. Wolfe asked, pleased with his invention. "My breasts are so big and my waist is so small," Paul replied with a heavy emphasis on the "so big" and "so small." "Paul, what makes you happy?" "The happiest? Putting on my teddy and fuck-me pumps and waiting for my boyfriend to come home." "Then what?" "Then I tease him." "Why?" "Because that's what makes him happy?" "How do you tease him?" "By being such a sexy bitch that he has to make me toe the line." "What does that mean?" "Opening his pants and sucking him dry, usually," Paul said giggling girlishly. "And that's what makes you happy?" "Yes. That and going to get my hair done." "Are you attractive, Paul?" "Yes," and miraculously he was. Still dressed like a man there was nonetheless a feeling of simmering femininity beneath his shirt and pants. He seemed more like a woman in drag than the young man that he was. Dr. Wolfe smiled at him. His discomfort at being in the wrong clothes had been dispelled by the vision of giving pleasure and he seemed content now in that vision. "Stand up, Paul and show me how pretty you can be." Paul obeyed and in the process of standing it was clear that he wasn't the same person who had sat down moments before. His hips thrust out and his head pushed back defiantly, proudly displaying an almost visible pair of breasts. He began to mince across the carpeted room on tip toes as though he was wearing the cherished fuck-me pumps. He took every opportunity to turn and bat his lashes or pout sexily. It was a burlesque that astonished Dr. Wolfe and gave her plenty of food for thought. Suddenly in the midst of his strutting he turned to her and said , "Can I take these clothes off now?" His voice was overloaded with babydoll sultriness. "My breasts hurt in this scratchy shirt." "In a moment," Dr. Wolfe said. "Sit down." He sat and Dr. Wolfe watched the nymphet's emergence with increasing interest. He was obviously ill at ease. He squirmed in the big leather chair like a child but the girl he felt himself to be was obviously not a child. Dr. Wolfe had the distinct feeling that what most annoyed him about his male clothes was their modesty. "Paul, would you like a CIGARETTE?" she said finally. The reaction was immediate and Dr. Wolfe had to restrain her laughter as the buxom vamp disappeared and Paul smiled lewdly at her from the recesses of the leather chair, totally unaware of the tart he'd been only a moment before. She stood up and walked to the window. "You don't have a lot of confidence in the therapeutic process do you, Paul?" she said without turning around. "Not much," he said, leering at her well-formed buttocks only inches away. "I have a lot of confidence in these though," he said reaching out to run his hand over her bottom. She didn't flinch. "You do . . . PANTYHOSE?" "I love your skirt," tarty Paul replied softly, his hand now brushing her skirt with entirely different meanings. Dr. Wolfe turned to look down at the adorable little slavegirl Paul had become. "How big did you say your breasts were . . . CIGARETTE?" "38 cup. . ." he said before his brain could comprehend the transition. "38 C cup? Whatever do you mean, Paul?" Dr. Wolfe said with interest. "I, uh, whaa . . ." "Oh, it's all right, PANTYHOSE." "Dr. Wolfe, am I alright? I'm feel so confused. Especially wearing these clothes?" the bewildered girl said, looking up enviously at Dr. Wolfe's fetching figure fully fitted in femme fashion. Dr. Wolfe walked back to her seat behind the desk. "I think I understand your problem and it's relatively simple to solve but it's very important that you be comfortable for your sessions here. Therefore . . . at our next session I want you to wear the clothes that you feel most comfortable in. Oh, and I'd like you to call me two hours before the session to reconfirm. Do you understand?" The acquiescent maiden nodded eagerly. "Alright, CIGARETTE. We'll see you a week from today?" Paul got out of the easy chair and headed for the door. He turned round and gave Dr. Wolfe a puzzled glance before he left. She smiled back at him in a way that disturbed him all the way home. The next night Paul and his wife were out with friends at Le Chez Grille for dinner. The conversation burbled along in different directions until Barbara happened to complain, "I knew I shouldn't have worn these?" she said, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. "Worn what?" her husband, Ron, asked with a grin. "Those PANTYHOSE you bought me." Suddenly Paul felt extremely self-conscious. His face turned bright pink and under the table his feet slid out of his loafers while his body seemed to be in the throes of a painful metamorphosis. He stared down at his plate. None of the other three noticed. "What PANTYHOSE?" Ron asked, disingenuously. "You know which PANTYHOSE," his wife replied. Each time the word was spoken Paul seemed to sink deeper into himself or herself and as his face came up from his plate it was different, a strange mixture of girlish self-consciousness and voluptuous abandon. "Is anything wrong, honey?" his wife asked him. "No," he said, his eyes darting furtively about the room, "why do you ask?" Ron and Barbara turned round to stare. His voice had suddenly become a breathy whisper with heavy overtones of Marilyn Monroe. They were about to laugh at his parody but something about his expression stopped them abruptly. "I've got to get out of these clothes," he said suddenly in the petulantly femmy voice that had emerged at Dr. Wolfe's. "Paul, what's wrong?" "Nothing's wrong. I just can't stand these clothes any longer." A handsome young waiter walked by the table and it was obvious that Paul was assessing him in a distinctly unmanly way. "Paul! Stop it, you're scaring me!" "You just want him for yourself," Paul replied in perfect Joan Collin's form. "Want who?" Barbara asked incredulously. "She knows who?" Laura blushed deeply and turned to her friends, "He started therapy yesterday." "Who's his therapist? Liberace?" Ron said. "Honey, what's the matter? You can tell me," Laura said in quiet, patronizing voice. "I've got to go the Ladies' Room," Paul replied without looking at her. He stood up and swivel-hipped across the room like a bawdyhouse stripper. By the time he'd reached the foyer, everyone in the small room was staring. Laura, weighted down with embarrassment, addressed Paul's bemused audience with a hasty, "He just stopped smoking." A collective sigh echoed across the room but it didn't really explain anything. "Paul, what the hell is the matter with you?" she demanded when she caught up with him in the hallway. "What's wrong? How would you feel if you had to wear these clothes? I feel so humiliated in front of all these men," his voice broke and he began to sob. "Paul, listen. Uh, listen to me. We'll go home and get you some new clothes, okay? Your new blazer." This made him sob even louder. "Paul, stop it. You're acting like a big . . . sissy. You're embarrassing me." "I'm embarrassing you? What about me? Look at you! Look what you get to wear. Strapless evening gown and spike heels," he said between sissified sobs. "Paul, what is happening to you. You sound envious." "Wouldn't you be? You just want them all for yourself." "All who?" "Oh, don't be so coy. I saw you eyeing that waiter." "What waiter?" A small balding man appeared in the hallway and after hesitating a moment came up to them and said, "Listen, man I know how it is. I've tried to quit four times. Here's a CIGARETTE." Paul looked at the man with a puzzled look and said in his normal voice, "Thanks, but I don't smoke." The man stared back, equally puzzled and then said, "Yeah, OK, positive thinking approaching. I can dig it. Well, good luck." He went back to the restaurant. "Feel okay now, honey," Laura said, breathing a sigh of relief at Paul's seemingly miraculous recovery from utter insanity. "Yeah, of course. What's the problem?" "What's the problem? Paul! Do you know you've been scaring me out of my mind for the past ten minutes!" "No way. I just came back to use the men's room," he said as his hand turned the bathroom doorknob. "Paul, this isn't the men's room! Look!" He turned round to see a large pair of red lips stenciled on the red birch door. "So, I made a mistake." Laura stared at him for a long while and then returned to tell Ron and Barbara that all was well though she didn't really believe it herself. At her next visit to Dr. Wolfe's Laura mentioned her husband's bizarre behavior as casually as she could but it was clear to Dr. Wolfe that she was unnerved by the experience. "Tell me more, Laura," Dr. Wolfe asked with interest. "Well, it's so strange to talk about it now. He just seemed to turn into a different person." "Different person?" "Yes, a bitchy, catty . . . woman." "A woman?" "Yes, I know it sounds weird. I mean, he was headed for the women's restroom when I stopped him." Laura struggled for a moment and then burst into tears. Dr. Wolfe reached back and pulled a kleenex out of the box but instead of simply handing it over to the lovely, whimpering blonde, she came out from behind her desk and sat on the armrest of the overstuffed chair. Laura looked up at her momentarily and then buried her head in Dr. Wolfe's abundant bust. They hugged for a long minute and then Dr. Wolfe gently pulled Laura away and kissed her on the lips. Laura was surprised at how welcome Dr. Wolfe's tongue was in her mouth and how wonderful the comely brunette's hands felt as they combed through her long blonde waves. "You're very beautiful, Laura," Dr. Wolfe said after their passionate embrace had finally come to an end. Laura's pale complexion turned crimson but she didn't look away. "May I?" Laura didn't say no and Dr. Wolfe gracefully unhooked the blonde's brassiere and plunged her hands beneath Laura's cool breasts, cupping them tenderly before she leaned down to kiss the stiffening nipples. "Do you like this?" Dr. Wolfe asked. Laura's reply was a barely audible breathy whisper. "Very much." "Maybe we should encourage Paul," Dr. Wolfe suggested. "Maybe," Laura said with a shy smile as she unbuckled Dr. Wolfe's skirt. * * * Three days later Laura lay in bed as Paul dressed for work. She had been so relaxed since her visit to Dr. Wolfe's that Paul was beginning to get annoyed and his unraveling demeanor only seemed to encourage his wife's unnerving calm. "I saw Barbara yesterday," she said, her voice rising above the din of running water. "And?" he asked absently. "And that run in her PANTYHOSE is still there," Laura said. The water stopped running suddenly. Five, ten and fifteen minutes passed. Laura was beside herself with excitement. She wasn't disappointed. Paul's face emerged in the doorway altered by the effective if primitive use of her make up. "I hate to ask you this," he cooed, "but can I borrow one of your bras?" "Of course, dear," Laura said, barely able to contain her laughter as she watched her once virile husband sashaying around the room as he diligently dressed himself in her underwear. When he had fastened his brassiere and pulled the pink panties up around his waist he turned to her anxiously. Laura got out of bed and walked to his closet. "I thought this might be nice," she said pulling a red dress off the rack and holding it up to Paul's chest. He smiled. "It's perfect." "What about your hair?" she asked. "I'm going to let it grow out. What do you think?" he said, staring into the mirror and seeing god knows what. "I think it's a good idea but until you do you might want to try this," Laura said, pulling down a hatbox from the top shelf of her closet. She opened it and pulled out a wig, brunette, a long and wavy flip. He took it from her eagerly and pulled it over his head clumsily. She helped him adjust it so that it looked like his hair and not like a fur hat. "Oh, you're so pretty," Laura said, laughing. Paul was silent, engrossed in his reflection, turning his head to admire the way the flip bounced over his shoulders, the way bangs made his eyes bigger and more innocent. "Oh, mommy, it's beautiful," Paul said. He tore himself away from the mirror and threw his arms around his wife's neck and kissed her chastely. Laura, took the ball gracefully and began to run with it, "You're so pretty. You're the prettiest daughter ever." "Mommy," Paul said as he turned back to the mirror. "What?" "Do you think I'm too big?" Laura stifled a laugh. "Big?" "You know, . . . up front." He placed his hands delicately over his decolletage "No, honey, you're just right but I think we should get you a bigger bra. Mine just don't fit you." "Mommy," he said quietly. "What?" "What's it like to suck cock?" Laura smiled at her bewigged husband. "I think it's bedtime for you, young lady. Go in there and wash off your make up. Right now. Go on." Paul reluctantly left her side and did as he was told, appearing a few minutes later with a scrubbed face but still wearing the wig, bra and panties. Gently his wife undressed him and removed the wig and put it back in the hatbox. Then she turned and said, "Do you have any CIGARETTES?" "Laura, you know I don't smoke," Paul replied as he leaned back against his pillow. She watched as he discovered the strap marks on his shoulders left by her too tight bra. His face contorted strangely but he said nothing. * * * The next morning Paul's nerves were frayed from a night of disturbing dreams. As he entered the elevator in the Omphale Building his mind was not on his work but on the image of a girl walking down a beach in a skimpy, yellow bikini. She obviously enjoyed the attention her figure was attracting and when two musclemen came after her, she eagerly doffed her top and let them nuzzle her remarkable bosom. The whole thing could have been dismissed as just another wet dream fantasy except for the fact that he was the girl. And when he woke up his nipples were sore. He carried his valise in one hand, a Wall Street Journal in the other. Clipped to his shirt was a plastic pocket protector with two mechanical pencils. Dorfman Brothers, a swanky department store, occupied the first three floors of the Omphale Building and each morning the Bob, the elevator boy would sing out the contents of each floor as the doors flew back long enough to accommodate his song. Today was no exception and as the door to the third floor opened, he began his spiel, "Lingerie, brassieres, corsets, corselettes, panties, garter belts, hosiery, peignoirs, slips, babydoll nightgowns, teddies, chemises, girdles, high heels, cosmetics, beauty salon, wigs, depilatories, ladies' apparel, prosthetic devices and PANTYHOSE." Paul got off. After a slight moment's hesitation he walked to the lingerie department and began fingering the lacy black brassieres in the sleek high-tech bins. "Can I help you?" a saleswoman said with a funny grin on her face. "Thanks, just looking," Paul said in a breathy whisper. The woman laughed. She thought he was camping it up for her benefit. "Well, just let me know if you want to 'try anything on', dear,'' she said, returning the quip. "Thank you, I will," he said without looking up. Two and a half hours later he stood before a mirror in the women's bathroom at Dorfman's and applied a final coat of lip gloss to his already overripe lips. A mass of brunette curls framed his newly prettified face and his bustline swerved into the previously unused space before his chest, now covered with a tight wool sweater. It was red of course. A short black skirt had displaced his slacks and his calves sported seamed stockings. The valise, his Wall Street Journal, pocket protector and the rest of his male identity were left behind in the stall and in their place a smart red leather purse hung over his limp wrist. His makeup was on the primitive side though by no means clownish. False eyelashes, heavy blush and plenty of black eyeliner spelled out a message of wanton girliness totally in keeping with his assigned feminine role as cockteaser and crowd pleaser and the shiny black fuck-me pumps seemed to turn his lycra enhanced derriere into a neon sign which flashed: "Bitch in Heat!" The lip gloss flawlessly applied, Paul resurfaced with a stunning feminine vengeance. Immediately he began to look for prey throughout the store but all he found were sales ladies and elderly men. He headed for the elevator. Bob gave him one, two, three looks as Paul sashayed past him into the car as the doors shut. "Floor, Miss?" "Thirty-eight," Paul replied lasciviously. "We only have 27 floors, Miss." "No, I meant I'm a 38. That's what you were wondering isn't it?" Paul said in his ultra femme voice which somehow didn't seem so odd any more. Bob blushed a deep red. "Miss?" "Oh, don't be so coy. I know what boys think. Do you know what I'm thinking." Paul cooed as his hand went down to Bob's crotch. Fifteen minutes later, after the elevator had been up and down the Omphale Building 4 times, Paul was reapplying lip gloss in the tiny elevator mirror as Bob fumbled for a pack of Kents in his uniform jacket which lay in heap at the back of the car. Stopping for a moment to admire Paul's ass once more, he posed the fatal question, "Do you want a CIGARETTE?" Paul thought he was looking through a tiny window at the face of pretty girl when the lip gloss in his hand jerked slightly and so did the girl's in the window. "Don't smoke? Yeah, I'm trying to quit myself. Say what's your name." The elevator doors opened fortuitously and Paul chased his substantial bosom out onto the third floor. Heels clicking like mad over the marble floor, he raced for the bathroom to wash out his mouth. Bob yelled out, "Thanks! Thanks a lot!" as the doors closed. His hand reached out for the chrome handle of the men's room when the paint on his nails made him aware that he was not dressed for appropriately. He raced to the ladies' room and for the first time examined himself in the mirror. A buxom 25-year-old brunette in a tight red sweater stared back at him but she no longer exuded her former confidence and in fact was trembling wildly. He spun on his heels as tears began to obscure his vision but not before he spied his valise sticking out of one of the stalls. That night as he brushed his teeth for the 40th time he wondered if he were going crazy. The clothes, the wig, the heels and the cosmetics were all in black plastic bag in the trunk of his car. But where did they come from? And why, why had he worn them. "Honey, maybe therapy isn't such a good idea," he said gently as he eased himself into their queen-size bed. "I think it's an excellent idea," she said insistently. The remaining days till therapy passed without incident but Paul couldn't put out of his mind or his mouth the unsavory episode in the elevator. Nor could his mind reconcile the odd events that had preceded it. Whereas his former visit was characterized by the worst sort of machismo he now entered Dr. Wolfe's office in a state of utter bewilderment. Concealed in his breast pocket was a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush which he had occasion to use almost hourly since the odd occurrence in the elevator. Dr. Wolfe seemed extraordinarily cheerful as she entered the office. Gone was the severely tailored suit. In its place she wore a shiny purple spandex leotard with a denim sheath skirt. Her hair was similarly relaxed and fell loosely around her face. She couldn't seem to stop grinning at him. "How was your week, Paul?" Paul couldn't look at her. Finally he said, "Weird." "Weird in what way." "I had a uh . . . I had a strange dream." "Would you care to talk about it?" "I was in an elevator." "Uh huh." "I was dressed like a girl." "I see. What were you doing in the elevator?" Dr. Wolfe said as her nipples began to harden involuntarily through the spandex. "I had just, uh, I had just sucked the elevator boy off." "Uh huh. How did that make you feel?" "Sick. Sick to my stomach." "Why?" "I don't know," his voice broke. "It was so strange. I was wearing a tight sweater with a . . . with a bra underneath," he sobbed. "And a skirt?" "Yes!" "And heels?" "Yes!" "And PANTYHOSE?" "Yes," Paul replied as the sobs suddenly turned sultry. A leer had sprouted across his face. "He was quite a tasty boy," Paul said, unconsciously licking his lips. "Did you swallow it?" "Always. It's good for your hair, you know." "So I've been told. Why didn't you wear your skirt today?" "I took it to the dry cleaners." he said improvisationally. "Oh, I see. And you don't have any other dresses to wear?" "Uh, of course but everything's at the dry cleaners." And then with great remorse, "I wish I hadn't worn these though." He was referring to his jeans. "Would you like to wear something else?" Dr. Wolfe asked with great sincerity. "Of course." "I have some clothes here. Perhaps you'll find something you like in that closet. Go ahead. Take a look." Paul jumped up and ran to the closet. The pole was empty except for one lone garment. He brought it out and held it up to the light. "Is this a joke?" Paul asked. "Joke?" "It's just a bustier, stockings and a skirt." "Better than jeans and a t-shirt, I thought." "How true," Paul said as he eased his trousers down over an imaginary rounded bottom. "Is that better?" Dr. Wolfe asked as Paul nestled back into the leather chair, his bust protruding conspicuously into the air. "Much," Paul said although his face was clouding. "What is it?" "My hair. It's so short." Dr. Wolfe got up and went to the closet and returned with a large hat box. "Try this," she said, pulling a long brunette wig out of the box and handing it to Paul who took it carefully and pulled it over his head. "That looks nice on you. Very Cher. Here, let me help you brush it out." Paul stood up and Dr. Wolfe took a brush and began tugging at the clumps of matted curls till Paul began to resemble a high- haired whore in heat. Paul grew increasingly impatient with Dr. Wolfe's tonsorial ministrations and at last he pulled away so he could look at himself in the mirrored surface behind her desk. "Can I borrow your lipstick?" Paul said after a cloud of disappointment passed over his face. Eagerly, hungrily he coated his lips with the red balm though it clearly wasn't enough. "And your eyeliner," he added. Dr. Wolfe watched in fascination as he drew the thin brush of black expertly over his lid without a single smear or hesitation. Mascara, eyeshadow and blush followed, each applied with faultless precision. When at last he seemed satisfied with the result, street temptress, second class, he turned to Dr. Wolfe who handed him a pair of heels and a purse. Slipping into the shoes his posture and demeanor changed radically as though these spiked heels were the last talismans he needed to complete the transformation set into motion by Dr. Wolfe's spell. Paradoxically as his manner became more feminine, more graceful, more delicate he seemed to achieve a new level of power, control and mastery. Whereas Paul was sullen, withdrawn and often bitter, his nameless femme counterpart was filled with vivacity clearly fueled by his newly discovered feminine sensuality. "Let me take your picture," Dr. Wolfe said. Paul happily obliged, posing lustily while Dr. Wolfe snapped away. "Oh, that's very good. Open your mouth just slightly," Dr. Wolfe said, encouraging the bawdiest of poses. In less than five minutes she'd used up an entire roll. "That was fun wasn't it?" Dr. Wolfe said as they resumed sitting. "Yes, I've always enjoyed modeling," Paul replied, crossing his legs demurely. "How did a girl as buxom as you get modeling work?" "I do lingerie catalogs for full figured girls." "Really?" Dr. Wolfe said, once again marveling at the psychic invention that Paul's fictional femme self had embroidered around so slender a concept. "That's so interesting. I have a friend who's looking for lingerie models. In fact I'm having some friends over for dinner next week and she was going to show her product line to them ala Tupperware style. Would you consider modeling for her?" "At your party?" "Yes, and possibly other places as well." "Any men present?" "No, just women." Paul was obviously disappointed. "Well, I suppose I could try it once," he said without interest. "Oh, that's great. Here's my address. It's next Friday night at 8:00. But you should come early to meet to Maria and make plans for the evening. Say around 6:00?" Paul nodded. "Now let's go back into a deeper hypnotic suggestive state and resume our work," Dr. Wolfe said as she pulled the amulet up from the depths of her cleavage. Paul leaned forward which exposed the empty cups of the bustier. His big head of curls framed his face creating a primitive but surprisingly seductive look. Already under the influence of Dr. Wolfe's suggestion he easily went into the trance. Arriving quickly at the lower level of functioning at which her power over him was even greater, Paul stared dumbly into her cleavage and awaited her commands. "Now Paul you've been a very good girl. Very pretty and very sexy which, being your mother, makes me very proud." Paul smiled dreamily at Dr. Wolfe's new impersonation. Laura had told her about the incident the week before. And it was clear that this idea had struck a chord which resonated throughout Paul's entire being. She continued, "It makes me happy to see your lovely hair so long and full and your breasts so well displayed. Are you happy now, my luscious, darling daughter?" Paul nodded like a marionette. Dr. Wolfe smiled thoughtfully at his eager acceptance of her maternal role and the power of approval that it bestowed. She knew this meant supreme control of her blossoming student, control that she looked forward to sharing with her colleagues at the lingerie party. "Now when you come out of your trance state I want you to take off your femme clothes, wash your face and put your male clothes back on. Next Friday I expect to see you at 6:00 sharp in your male clothes." Paul's face clouded over. "Don't worry, dear, you will be modeling brassieres and teddies shortly. I'm going to introduce some new words into your command file now. Do you understand?" Paul nodded. Dr. Wolfe then painstakingly introduced Paul to a several new command words, taking care to try each one out to make sure that he understood the correct Pavlovian response. When at last she was satisfied she praised him like any proud mother would. "Very good, Paul. Now before you go today I want you to take care of a little problem I'm having with Mr. Gonzales, our super." Dr. Wolfe got up and closed the blinds as she continued. "I owe two months back rent on the office but Mr. Gonzales has very generously agreed to take it out in trade. Do you understand?" Paul smiled broadly. "I knew you would. I'll be leaving now," Dr. Wolfe said picking up her purse. "Have fun!" she said. When she glanced back at him from the door he was already primping in front of the mirror behind her desk. At six o'clock sharp Paul was knocking on Dr. Wolfe's door. Inside the pocket of his blazer he carried two brushes still in their wrappers and a small tube of toothpaste. All week long he'd been haunted by strange images. The greasy trousers, piled in a heap, the strange man standing over him, his outstretched hands proffering a pack of Pall Malls, and the hot jism that overflowed his painted mouth and dripped off his chin. "Muchas gracias," the man had laughed as he zipped his pants up. "Tell the doctor her rent is paid . . . for another month," he added as he walked out. He'd stood up and looked at himself in the mirror. Tendrils of dynel clung to his temples, glued with sweat and cum, lipstick was smeared around his mouth. He got up wobbled to the bathroom where he vomited for half an hour. Now he was determined to get an explanation from Dr. Wolfe. Not only about the bizarre incidents in the elevator and office but also about the lurid dreams which pursued him constantly. Dreams whose plots and images mostly eluded him, leaving only the familiar unsavory taste in his brain. At times, fragments of images would surface in the morning, a Sultan's swaggering sword dangled over his embarrassingly eager lips, a backstage orgy in a dressingroom stuffed with silk or the disturbing reflection of an artfully coiled pompadour, towering two feet above his head in a frothy white meringue. The images were bewildering but even more so was the accompanying emissions which occurred with such regularity that he began tucking sanitary napkins into his pajamas to absorb the nightly spunk flows. As he waited for the door to open anger and fear began to pound in his blood mingled with an unexpected excitement. "Paul, how good of you to come." Paul's resolve melted immediately as he took in Dr. Wolfe's startling appearance. She wore a black silk robe which opened well past her cleavage in a dramatic V whose immodest revelations seemed to cause her no particular concern. Her hair was pulled back in a long ponytail which she draped fetchingly over one shoulder. Before he had a chance to unload his vituperation she took his hand. "Come with me," she said pulling him across the floor and up the carpeted stairs. "Wait a minute!" he said. He yanked her arm and she stopped to look back at him. "Yes?" "What's happening to me? Am I turning . . . " "Queer?" she offered. He swallowed hard and looked down at his feet. "I mean, I uh, I woke up in an elevator and I was, uh . . .I was wearing . . ." His mouth was suddenly dry. "I was wearing a . . . sweater," he blurted out. "You were? You naughty boy!" Dr. Wolfe said in mock horror. "And a bra!" "And?" "A skirt." "What else?" "High heels." "Well, you're just full of surprises. Anything else?" "My face was all . . ." "Made up?" ". . . and I was wearing a wig." "I wish I'd seen that." "What is happening to me," he screamed suddenly. "What have you done to me?" He grabbed her and began shaking her violently. Her robe slithered to the floor. "Paul don't. Don't Paul, you'll start a run in my PANTYHOSE." Paul let go of Dr. Wolfe's arms. The tears that streaked his cheeks seemed to dry instantly and his fury passed like a summer storm. Though the sun didn't exactly come out from behind the clouds. Instead Paul seemed to turn the raging storm inward where it surfaced in a smile so full of carnal energy that Dr. Wolfe backed up the stairs. Her bare breasts, firm and full, swayed inches from his lips. He began to unbutton his shirt. Beads of sweat sprouted on Dr. Wolfe's brow as Paul's face lost its pathos and fear and adopted a look of predation and lust. He tore his T-shirt off and threw it down hard. Dr. Wolfe began calculating the distance to the nearest lockable door as he leaned forward, his head tilted at an peculiar angle, and in the breathiest of whispers, said, "Will you dress me pretty now, mommy?" Dr. Wolfe inhaled deeply and then smiled. "Of course, dear. We'll dress together." Then she led him up the stairs to her boudoir. * * * Two and a half hours later glasses clinked in Dr. Wolfe's living room as her friends waited for the "model" to emerge. Maria had arrived at seven, in time to oversee Paul's depilitation and attend to other fine points of his transformation. She was short, buxom and her dark brunette hair fell in thick waves down her back. She worked as a beautician during the day and at night supplemented her income by various means, not all of them legal. Tweezing Paul's brows into submission was, to her, a rather tame assignment but one which, like everything she did, absorbed her attentions fully. Paul, ever the grateful ingenue, sat crosslegged on a upholstered barstool, wearing only a bustier and seamed stockings. He seemed ecstatically happy as Maria daubed his eyes with exotic colors. "I feel so lucky to have you doing my make up," Paul cooed, as he stared past Maria into the bathroom mirror at his rapidly transforming image. Maria stifled a laugh in a cough and continued to paint the thin black line under his eyes. "You're going to be the sexiest model I've ever had," Maria said as she stood back to check the symmetry of Paul's make up. "Too bad it's going to waste," Paul pouted. "Waste?" "No men!" Paul said as if it were obvious. "Don't be too sure, little girl." Paul's face brightened immediately but he could tell from Maria's smile it was not a subject to be pursued too hotly and he asked no questions. Still, his whole demeanor underwent a subtle change. His posture straightened, thrusting his bust into the air like ballistic missiles and he threw his head to one side as though he were tossing back a mane of curls. Curiously, at that moment, Dr. Wolfe appeared in the doorway with a large round box. "Mmmmm. Very nice," she said, complimenting Maria on her make up job. It was true. Maria had pulled out all the stops and Paul's face fairly glowed with exotic radiances and shimmering iridescences. His lashes were long and dark and his bright red lips gleamed with lustrous sheen. He had ceased to look like a boy in drag and now looked like a very glossy girl with a very butch coiffure. But that was soon to change as Dr. Wolfe pulled the newly done wig from the box. It was a long brunette page boy that fell smoothly past his shoulders, backcombed to achieve a fullness and with thick, heavy bangs. As Paul hungrily reached for it, Maria slapped his hand and then gingerly placed it on his head like a diamond tiara. The effect was immediate, dramatic and startling. The young man that Paul had been, now only marginally present, disappeared entirely, replaced by a girl giddy with her comely reflection and seemingly unconcerned about the contradictory genitals which hung limply over the stool's edge. He began to primp with the seriousness of someone whose livelihood depended on their ability to catch eyes at 20 miles an hour. Maria and Dr. Wolfe smiled at each other as Paul straightened his stockings, turned right and left to examine his profile and attached a pair of dangly rhinestone earrings. "Paula," Dr. Wolfe said, gently pulling him away from his captivating reflection. It was the first time she'd ever called him by his feminized name and he responded with an eager smile. "Come here. It's time to get ready." Paul slid reluctantly off the stool and oozed across the floor to Dr. Wolfe who knelt beside Paul, fondling his genitals before tucking them into the leather gaff that tucked them convincingly into a neat ladylike triangle. "That's much better, darling," Dr. Wolfe said. "So much more . . . feminine." Paul blushed a deep scarlet at Dr. Wolfe's remark. Maria then slid a garter belt around his waist, fastened it and deftly attached Paul's stockings. Meanwhile he strained to see his reflection from his new vantage point. Dr. Wolfe came to his rescue with a large hand mirror. "Is this what you're looking for, Paula?" she said handing him the mirror. "Oh, yes, Dr. Wolfe, thank you," Paul said dragging the "s" out interminably. His voice was now a strange combination of his own husky baritone and a most feminine inflection. The voice would have seemed a burlesque before this evening but tonight, after the metamorphosis, it suited the burgeoning slut perfectly. Maria and Dr. Wolfe stood back to admire their creation and Maria whispered something to Dr. Wolfe and they both burst out laughing but Paul didn't seem to notice. He continued to primp in the mirror, delicately teasing his hair higher or retouching his lip gloss and then turning his pretty head this way and that to admire the slightest alterations. No teenage girl had ever mastered the minutiae of self-worship as well as this beauteous young man in a bustier and stockings. "Paula," Maria said quietly, trying to break the boy-girl out of his revery gently. "Paula, it's time to model." Paula looked up at his two co-creators shyly. "You'll be fine, my darling daughter," Dr. Wolfe said tenderly. She gave him a last hug before Maria pulled out the first item Paul was modeling: a black baby doll nightgown. Downstairs Dr. Wolfe's guests were chatting gleefully about Paula's imminent appearance. For the most part they were attractive, upscale career women. Not the sort you'd expect at a Lingerie party but then this wasn't really a lingerie party and everyone there knew that. Among the smartly dressed, sensibly coiffed women was a standout, top heavy peroxide blonde. Her make up wasn't what you'd call subtle and neither was the sweater she appeared to be outgrowing by the minute but nonetheless she managed to project a bovine innocence, an impression no doubt created by her large brown eyes which stared dreamily into the space beyond her martini. She stood alone, oblivious of the sidelong glances her provocative physique in its seductive packaging was inviting. Her hair, abundant and backcombed into a bubble on top, was as anachronistic as her bold, almost lurid sexuality. "When's the Bride of Frankenstein getting here. I've already had 3 white wines and a cocktail," an attractive brunette in her mid- thirties declared. "Nancy," her companion admonished, "you can't rush beauty. At least, not this kind." "I suppose not. Did you get the list?" "The list?" "The list of words that Angela's programmed her sissy boy to respond to," the brunette said, handing her friend a laminated card with eight words printed neatly on one side. "Hmmmm. PONYTAIL, CHAMBERMAID, MOMMY'S GIRL, CANDYSTRIPER, SLUT. Interesting. What does he do when he hears these words?" "Nobody knows except Angela. That's the fun part." "Uh oh, here he comes." "That's him? He's so darling. Oh, I love his hair. It's so retro." "Where did he get that bust?" The approving murmurs that rippled through the amazed crowd of women relaxed Paul as he strode past them. His skittishness disappeared and he began to wheel and turn, obviously quite proud of his feminine charms. So convincing was his presentation and display, the women had to remind themselves that this utterly feminine creature was indeed a man. So graceful were his movements, so alluring his features, and so convincing were his spurious curves that not a few of them suppressed twinges of envy as Paula whirled around on his heels letting the shimmering organdy net whirl out from his body. Perhaps it was this unwelcome and unexpected emotion that led Bobbi, a striking brunette to start the evening's festivities. "Paula, is it true that you're a MOMMY'S GIRL?" she asked somewhat stagily. The room became silent. Paul's model deportment slowly drained out of his heels and left in its place an awkward, gawky teenage girl. A teenage girl in a gauzy, purple babydoll nightgown. "Mommy?" Paul said in a voice that took everyone by surprise. "I'm here, Paula," Angela replied. Maria twisted the rheostat so the lights went down around the room except for the track lighting that lit the impromptu stage where Paula and her mother met. "Mommy, the girls make fun of me," Paula said, tears gathering in his mascaraed eyes. "Why, honey?" The shy teenage girl turned crimson. Her mother pressed on. "Why, baby?" "The boys laugh at me too." Angela cradled her daughter in her arms. "Oh, baby, baby. What's wrong?" "They laugh at my breasts, Mommy," the pretty boy/girl sobbed. A fleeting ripple of titters coursed through the darkened audience. "What's wrong with your breasts, honey?" "They're so big. The boys are always staring at them and in gym the girls make rude comments." "What kind of comments?" "They call me Melon-y and Jugs R Us." "Well, you do have nice set, Paula," Angela said matter of factly. "Mommy! You're supposed to be on my side," the pretty boy/girl said petulantly. Angela slapped her daughter hard across the face. "Listen here, young lady, you're stacked, built, busty, beautifully bosomy, jug- alicious. Get used to it." Paul looked down as teardrops hit the toes of his shiny heels. At this poignant pause another woman in the audience called out, "Paula, what's it like being a SLUT?" Once again Paul's demeanor shifted 180 degrees and he regained control of his womanly form, dominating its energy and reveling in its tawdry attractions. Thrusting his pendulous bustline into space he pouted back an answer, "It's wonderful," he said filling the words with as many allusions as they would bear, "but I really do have to change into something . . . less comfortable," he said in a breathy whisper. Then he swivel-hipped his way past his audience who broke into spontaneous applause which delighted him no end. "This is better than theatre," Nancy said immediately. "What do you mean? This is theatre. Fifteen minutes later, Paul had regained the stage. This time in black bra, panties, garter belt and stockings. Maria had changed his wig as well. Still brunette, this one was long and wavy, parted on one side and fell considerably past his shoulders. A red satin rose barrette held the thick locks back behind one ear, exposing a large gold hoop. The women went crazy which in turn boosted Paula's sluttiness to burlesque proportions. Whenever he could he leaned into his audience in a rapturous presentation of the considerable cleavage Angela and Maria had managed to create for their eager victim by taping here and pinching there. Paul as the slut Paula managed to create a very convincing trollop and Angela's friends couldn't get enough of his crude gyrations and lewd locomotion. Turning his back to the the audience he wiggled his pantied derriere in their faces and then turned his head round and gave them his cutest little girl look, hanging his finger on his lower lip in classic burlesque fashion. Angela let his performance wind down and then said loudly, "Paula, would you care to talk to the girls about being a slut?" Paul leaned forward and smiled like the cat that ate the canary. Brushing his long locks back over his shoulder he said in a thick Mae West accent, "I need a man." The room erupted into laughter. Angela continued, "What would you do with a man, Paula?" "Unzip him." The door opened and heads turned to see Laura walk in with a handsome young man. She glanced at Paul as they walked past and whispered something to the young man who laughed. They went upstairs and the audience turned back to Paul who hadn't noticed his wife's arrival. "And then what?" someone in the audience asked. Paul said nothing but let his tongue course round his lips while his eyes closed ecstatically. Angela sensing the need for a change of pace, called out, "Paula, are you ready to be a CHAMBERMAID." Once again Paul's demeanor shifted 180 degrees and he said meekly, "Yes, mistress." Maria hastily fastened a tiny apron round his waist and attached a small white hat to his hair. "I'm not your mistress, Paula. Your mistress is over there," Angela said, pointing to the living room where Paul's wife and the handsome stranger were entwined on the sofa. Paul adjusted his apron and heeled his way daintily across the room unaware of the audience whose eyes followed every step he took. "Oh, Paula, I'm so glad you're here. Would you curtsey for my friend, Steve," Laura said sarcastically. Paul eagerly obliged. "Steve, this tasty tart is my husband. Doesn't he make a cute girl?" "This is your husband?" Steve said, shocked. "Yes, he's an enthusiastic little bitch now. Aren't you Paula?" "Yes, Mistress Laura," Paul replied obediently. "Would you like to suck big Steve's cock, Paula?" "Oh, yes, Mistress Laura," Paul said, a shudder of delight coursing over his petticoated frame, as he delicately dropped to his knees. The audience tittered over this development. "Well, go to it then, little girl," Steve said, whipping his massive flaccid penis out of his pants and shoving it into Paul's face. Paul held the rubbery tool in his hand while his tongue moistened every inch of its considerable surface. "Just suck it, girly-boy," Laura said, pushing Paul's head into Steve's groin and soon Paul was swallowing the hardening tubesteak like a little girl with a big sucker. Eyes closed in ecstasy he looked every inch the ardent whore girl that Dr. Wolfe's vivid suggestions had planted in his pliant brain. Steve's cock, now totally engorged, was thick as a Louisville slugger and Paul's jaws seem to come unhinged like a snake to take it all in. He was not suffering however. Even when Steve rammed his cock down the girl- boy's throat Paul never winced but only seemed more thrilled to pleasure the stud. Finally as the first hot spurts coursed down Paul's throat Steve withdrew abruptly and sprayed the remainder over the maidboy's pretty face. Paul began to laugh as heaps of the white goo creamed his cheeks and his tongue darted out to retrieve the juice that dribbled within striking distance. "What a good girl, Paula," Laura said patronizingly as she patted Paul's bangs. "Would you like a CIGARETTE now?" Even before the loaded word left her cruel lips Paula the luscious chambermaid had turned back into Paul the bewildered husband and for a moment all was silent except for the choking sounds he made as the salty taste of hot spunk caught in his throat. "Don't you want to kiss Steve's big dick now, my pretty girl husband?" Laura said, taking the deflating cock in her hand and rubbing the last drops of cum over Paul's painted lips. Paul looked up to see his wife clinging to the handsome stud as they laughed at his pitiful pantied frame. He tried to get up but his heels gave way and he fell back down at their feet. She laughed at his pathetic attempts to reassert his masculinity then he watched as she thrust her tongue into Steve's mouth, indifferent to his pitiful whimpering on the floor before them. Suddenly the peroxide blonde appeared by his side. She had discarded her sweater for a starched white nurse's uniform. Not a real one but the kind worn in burlesque shows, thigh length hem with a revealingly low-cut bodice. Her voice was stern. "Get a hold of yourself, Paula. Stop whining," she said, in a gravelly, whiskey-drenched voice. She punctuated her remarks with a slap to his face which brought an abrupt halt to his sniveling. "That's better. Now don't you want to be my CANDYSTRIPER?" the blonde asked. Paul's tears dried up like the Red Sea and suddenly a look of wide- eyed innocence overtook his face as though the spirit of a young girl had suddenly inhabited him. The lipstick smears from his enthusiastic blow job now resembled the aftermath of a gooey sucker. "Well, don't you?" the blonde repeated. The suddenly shy little girl nodded silently. "Well, go get into your uniform then," the blonde nurse said. She helped him to his heeled feet and off he ran with gazelle grace. Maria was waiting for him upstairs with a somewhat altered candystriper's uniform. The skirt fell to mid-thigh and the bodice plunged dramatically. Paul quickly slipped into the dress as Maria began repairing his face, giving special attention to his eyes. She then replaced his wig. It was a new upswept affair with a poufy swirl of brunette curls on top and mega-bangs that accented his wide-eyed pristine charm. Suddenly Angela appeared by his side. "Oh Paula, I'm so proud of you," she said as she affixed a little boatlike hat to his bouffant coiffure. "Oh, mommy, am I the prettiest candystriper?" Paula said, eagerly hoping for her approval. Angela stroked the pretty boy-girl's hair. "Of course, Paula. No go help Nurse Marilyn and remember to do whatever she says." Paul romped down the stairs back onto the makeshift stage where the curvaceous blonde nurse waited like a big blonde spider. "Oh, how darling, Paula. That's much better," Marilyn said warmly, her brusque demeanor gone for the moment. "Come give me a kiss." Paul dutifully surrendered to Nurse Marilyn's robust embrace and though he was shocked by her vigorous kisses, he submitted passively. The audience loved this scene of forced tenderness believing that it wouldn't last long. But they were mistaken as the attractive nurse kissed her young candystriper with such abandon that small sighs of empathy and arousal echoed throughout the room. As for pretty Paula, his response moved from passive to passionate and found almost against his will that Nurse Marilyn's attentions were creating havoc in his panties. A fact not lost on Nurse Marilyn as she moved one hand to further stimulate the peppermint girl's groin while her other began unbuttoning her own uniform. "Do you find me attractive?" the buxom blonde asked. "Yes, Nurse Marilyn," the delicious boy/girl responded dutifully. "I think you're cute too," Nurse Marilyn said as her voluminous bosom encased in black lace came into view. "Would you like me to nurse you, Paula?" Marilyn said softly. Paula gasped for breath, his mouth suddenly dry, "Oh, yes, yes, mommy nurse me, nurse me mommy." Nurse Marilyn smiled at his earnest error and unhooked her bra. Two pert breasts tumbled over Paula's pretty face, his eager lips quickly finding the succor it sought on a tiny erect nipple. Nurse Marilyn's back arched and she thrust her head back in ecstatic surrender. "Suck it, baby. Suck it, sweet darling." The tiny sighs from the audience now turned to low moans of pleasure as the scene of erotic splendor grew more intense. Paula moved from nipple to nipple, unaware that Nurse Marilyn's starched white uniform had fallen silently to her heels. She now stood nearly naked before the young candyboy/girl. Only her black stiletto heels, white nurse's hat, panties and garter belt remained. "Paula, Paula," the comely blonde said tenderly. "Mmmm," the candystriper replied, still immersed in his nursing. "Paula, nurse on this for a while," Marilyn said, pushing Paula's shoulders down gently but firmly until his face hover near her groin. Quickly, expertly, as though flipping a switch she pulled down her panties and out popped her dick. Paula looked up, wide- eyed at the nurse who importuned him to continue. "But mommy . . ." he blurted but then could not speak for Nurse Marilyn filled his open mouth with her big blonde cock. His muffled mutterings subsided as her torso pushed back and forth and her hands grasped his bewigged head, forcing his mouth to begin its tortured caresses. Soon Paula was sucking energetically on his own, obeying the unnatural instinct implanted by Dr. Wolfe's insidious suggestion. It was a stunning tableau of perversion. The beautiful candystriper with the pouffy bouffant on his knees in eager submission to the powerful and shameless shemale nurse. "Suck it, baby. Suck it, bitch." A rough edge now crept into Nurse Marilyn's husky entreaties as she manipulated Paula's head without a trace of her earlier tenderness. "Oh, suck, suck, suck it, you pretty thing." Suddenly trying to catch her breath she held Paula's head immobile as his lips continued to pull across her lathered penis. Breathing hard Nurse Marilyn felt Paula's clammy brow and said between heavy gasps, "Oh, . . . Oh. . . I think you're . . . running. . . a fever, dear. Let me . . . Let me take your . . . temperature." The bewildered Paula rose as Nurse Marilyn pulled him up to her level once again. Kissing him briefly on the lips, she turned him around and said, "Bend over, Paula so I can insert my thermometer. His helpless pleas went unanswered as the bosomy blonde pulled up his skirt, pulled down his panties and adroitly lubricated Paula's anus with vaseline. Just like a nurse. Unlike a nurse she then eased her big cock into his virginal asshole with gradual but relentless movement. "Oooh, you're a tight little cunt, aren't you, honey. Mmmmm, does it feel good for you?" Paula arched his back and thrust his head up, eyes closed in pleasure and pain. He opened his mouth but no words emerged. Instead he emitted a long low, growl as if the pretty nurse had turned him into a beast. The growl was soon muzzled by the insertion of Big Steve's cock which the candystriper eagerly took into his mouth. Now Paula resembled a piece of meat on a rotisserie: stuck on both ends with the stiff prongs of Steve and Nurse Marilyn. They timed their rhythmic thrusts in a cruel counterpoint so that Paula's body jerked this way and that like a tortured Barby doll. It was at this point that Dr Wolfe appeared by Paula's side. "Are you having a good time, dear?" Dr. Wolfe asked solicitously. "Can I get you anything?