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SHARON by Leigh DeSantaFe David Hausman sat in the bathtub in a soaking stupor, clouds of dissipating suds popping softly around his knees. His mind wandered out to the bedroom where he had laid out his clothes for the evening. He was fixated on the shiny new French maid's outfit with tulle petticoats that he received at his P.O. box two weeks before. It had remained virginal for those two tremulous weeks because of scheduling conflicts. His second wife, Sharon, though blonde, beautiful and ambitious in the extreme, had never been adequately apprised of David's need for feminization. In fact, she had no knowledge of David's hidden life at all. And David hadn't thought it necessary to share it with her. After all, another divorce would bankrupt him and after six months of marriage to Sharon he suspected that bankruptcy might be the least of his problems if she were to find out about his closeted life. Sharon had been his secretary when they first met. She was everything a man might fall for in a woman. Pretty, bright and with a deferential manner that melted David's heart. After a short, romantic courtship he asked her to marry him. She was awestruck by the idea but not put off and in fact encouraged David to move the marriage date up by 3 months. The first three months of marriage were blissful with his young blonde bride eager to please him in every way. But Sharon became bored with housewifery, her secretarial position evaporated after she assumed the new role as David's wife. So she began to pester him for a job at the firm. He capitulated finally and she assumed a position as a clothes buyer. As a secretary she had been solicitous. As a wife she had been subservient but David noted after a few weeks at her new job that there was an ambitious streak to her. She constantly talked shop with him, advising him on buying inefficiencies and ways to improve customer relations and finally on firing deadwood. Her suggestions were apt, even shrewd and he found himself carrying out most of her ideas. But even as she prospered in her new position some of the magic had drifted out of the marriage. No longer had she time for the little courtesies and obeisances that had been such a potent salve for his middle_aged ego. He found himself drifting into the ancient erotic reveries during lovemaking. Finally, he lost interest entirely. The cruelest thing was that Sharon didn't seem to mind at all. So the rift began. And now here he was, after an nine month hiatus, back to the rituals of his past. He soaped his hand with shampoo and stroked himself to hardness and thought about his love in the next room. She of the buoyant petticoats and bursting bosom. His femme fatale with her big pouffy curls and her coy mincing heeled steps. He stopped his massage, not wanting to deflower her before the lovemaking had begun. He got up from the tub dripping and surveyed the bedroom through the open door. The bra, panties, corset and accessories were arrayed carefully around the maid outfit. On the dresser, his wig, newly coiffed, unfurled its abundant curls over the edge. The make up table was cluttered with all of his things, produced from boxes and bags stashed in unlikely places around the house. Just the sight of all these things brought him once more to erection and he found that even in his naked uncrossdressed state he began to feel feminine, padding across the thick pile carpet in his barefeet like the shy young lady he was about to become. He wrapped his imaginary curls up in big terry turban, slid snugly into his wife's short white robe and sat down at her vanity and proceeded to paint his nails Vermilion pink. It was the first step in an elaborate tea ceremony of femininity. With each brush stroke his excitement grew until his hands trembled as the last pinkie was coated with red lacquer. Ever more his movements became saturated with an exaggerated girlishness. A stranger viewing from a private place would have seen his head cock at strange sinuous angles, examining his face in the mirror before applying a thick paste of base to his beard with a sponge. It was a descent into another world, a delicate lowering of consciousness into a semi_torpid state of suspended belief and by the time he had spun this gauzy cocoon of paint and powder around himself, the butterfly was already emerging. A tentative, pink monster strapping itself into a black brassiere, pulling up and tucking in, hooking and fastening, buttoning down and combing out. David's petticoats moved stiffly beneath his black satin skirt as he shifted weight to snap on a rhinestone earring. There! The transformation was complete. The little touches that made his heart glad were all in place. The black choker, a tiny white hat bobbypinned to his wig, the wig itself, auburn curls that fell over his shoulders in a delicious cascade. He loved the way the wig fell over his naked shoulders. So much so that he improvised a little miming game in which he was startled by an unseen intruder which caused his head to turn abruptly into a waiting mirror. His hand rushed to his lips, in a dumb show reminiscent of Mary Pickford. Yes, he was looking in the mirror at this stagy silent movie but it was the sensuousness of the trail of curls across his back that sent a shiver of delight down his spine. He wore a French maid uniform, with its stark contrasts of blacks and whites, the very emblem of burlesque subservience. But there was no burlesque here. It was all so deadly serious. However hoary with cliche and lamely unimaginative it was also horribly rife with meaning. In the moment, in the mirror's moment, he pulled the feather duster up to his bosom and the blood pounded out a tattoo of lust intermingled with fear and pain and solitude and desperate longing as invisible arms surrounded him at his labors and constrained him to bestow passionate kisses on a suitor whose desires were ravenous and neverending. At last, he was wanted. He was desired. He was fulfilled as the object of his own lust projected onto a phantom lover. He heard keys in the front door and voices laughing. The phantom lover withdrew into the mirror immediately leaving his bodice unripped. The little girl, the Mary Pickford girl threatened to leave him too as he stood wobbling in his heels on the thick pile carpeting. It was Sharon. Sharon and someone else. He rushed unsteadily to the bedroom door and cracked it to see Sharon embracing a young man in the door way, obviously continuing the kisses that they had enjoyed in the back of a cab. Sharon looked slightly undone. The man's tie was loosened. It was evident that they had had a lot to drink. David's stomach turned inside out. The little girl was gone, the beautiful burlesque maid was gone. He was a man in a ridiculous wig wearing a maid outfit. Tears of anger and fear rimmed his eyeliner. Now he was truly helpless, vulnerable and exposed. But it wasn't at all erotic. Of all the absurd passions that seize men's minds none seemed less explicable to the unaffiliated than this obsession with women's clothing. And now he was looking through this crack at his wife's wanton infidelity and her lover's desire. They would not understand why. They could never understand why. His head shook with fear and his curls trembled over his shoulders catching the light so that the young man left off kissing his wife's neck and drew back. "What?" "I saw something." "Where?" "In the bedroom." "No!" He could hear them running toward the door. The swish of her garments, the footfalls of her lover on the carpeting. The door pushed open. The tableaux of perversion was spread out before them like a stage set and when their eyes came full circle it was him they found cowering behind the door, his painted fingers covering his face, his fishnet knees knocking, his dynel curls quivering. "What?" she said. "Who is this?" "This is my husband," she screamed. She was drunk. "Your what?" "My sissy husband in drag!" "Too fuckin' weird for me, man!" "Look at you, you fag! You disgust me! Look at me, sissy!" she screamed, tearing his hands away from his face. He looked at her through teary eyes. She seemed shocked by his appearance. "I can't believe this. He's wearing false eyelashes." "Too fuckin' weird," her lover kept repeating. "Look at this, Rob. She's wearing a maid outfit. That fits. My husband, the slutty maid. What'd you do with your dick, honey?" she said as her hand dived under his petticoats and groped his black panties. "I gotta go. This is way too . . ." "No. Don't go, Rob. I doubt if Yvette here, minds if we fuck. After all, she's just my maid. You don't mind, do you, Yvette?" He was silent. "I asked you a question, sissy!" "Listen, I think we should . . ." "Do you, slut?" He didn't answer. "Well, why don't you just sit down at your vanity and watch while I suck Rob off. You'd like that, wouldn't you? You like to watch, I bet." She pulled him over to the vanity and pushed him into the chair. Then she walked back to her lover and put her arms around him. "Hold me." The young man put his arms around her and they began to neck passionately while David watched in passive humiliation. If he turned away Sharon screamed at him. "Watch what a real man does, sissy!" As the necking became more intense Sharon's hands deftly undid his belt and soon her hand delved into his pants and pulled out his thick, stiff cock. David's lips trembled like a frightened little girl as his wife fell to her knees and began kissing her lover's penis. "Oh, baby, you're the best. You're so fucking hot," she moaned between her moist, well_placed kisses. Finally, when his member was shiny and wet she commenced sucking him and her cooing praise faded into breathy sighs punctuated by gasps for air as she took in the full length of his cock. Occasionally she took breaks from the rhythmic motion and tongue flicked his balls. It was during one of these respites that she turned to David and said viciously, "This is what I give a real man, sissy!" She resumed sucking until her lover picked her up and walked her back toward the bed where he fell on her, ripping her skirt off and pushing her panties aside while his dick found her dripping cunt oh so ready. As he pumped away on top of his wife, David sat in meek acceptance, his fishnet knees chastely cemented together. Sharon's moans grew louder and louder as her stud reached his dull conclusion and finally they collapsed in sweat as their orgasms collided. The room was silent but for their heavy breathing. After a moment Sharon said, "That was so beautiful, Rob. You fuck me so good." They had forgotten that David was still in the room. Or so it seemed. "Sissy maid, get Rob and I a gin and tonic, will you? We're thirsting from fucking." David didn't move. "You heard the lady, you faggot. Go and get us a drink," Rob said with a new found authority. His boldness made them both laugh. David moved off the chair quietly and walked without turning his head out of the room to the sound of their derisive taunts. "That's it, sissy! Go for it!" When David reached the kitchen he paused, pressing his petticoats against the tile counter and then methodically, automatically he bent over and retrieved a bottle of Tanqueray from under the sink. As he stretched up to get cocktail glasses on an upper shelf he suddenly felt his hair brushing over his naked shoulders. It was delicious. His heart was pumping again. He felt his breasts straining against their tight containment and as he eased down to the floor his feet fell naturally into his high heels with an ease born of feminine acceptance. "I am Debbie," he thought. "I am a maid." He finished fixing the drinks, put them on a TV tray and brought them into the bedroom demurely. Sharon was wrapped tightly around Rob's chest, her lips kissing his nipples in a languorous stupor. When she saw David arriving with the TV tray her eyes flickered with malicious glee. "Thank you, sissy. That will be all." David retreated to the livingroom and found a sudden lightheaded elation flooding through him. A recognition. "I am a sissy," he thought. He walked to the oval mirror in the foyer and stared at his face. Sissy Debbie smiled back at him, radiant, lovely. He had never felt so feminine before, so deliciously servile yet so completely at peace, so totally humiliated and yet liberated. He cupped his breasts and said a prayer. "I am Debbie, a sissy maid." He slept on the couch that night in a bliss beyond recounting while moans continued to emanate from the bedroom as Rob's coarse thrusts continued to arouse and satisfy his wife. In the morning Rob and Sharon showered together and dressed for work. Sissy Debbie fixed them breakfast and watched with rapt attention as they kissed and fondled each other. Sharon had ceased to taunt him with cruel remarks which in a way was a much more effective affront. "What a man!" she said as she fell against the door in a swoon. She rubbed her sex with affectionate remembrance of the night's pleasures. David cleared the breakfast dishes in his petticoats. "I'm going to Chicago with Rob for a few days, sissy. When I get back we'll talk," she said as though she talking to her secretary. Something about the implied threat in her voice made David squirm with apprehension but that same tone filled his cock with blood. A fact that was not lost on Sharon who groped him on her way to the bedroom. "Figures," she said. David blushed deeply but said nothing. A few moments later she called him into the bedroom. "Turn around. I want to see something." He obeyed and she pulled back the collar of his maid uniform. "12. Petite for a big girl like you. Okay. That's all I wanted to know. See you at the end of the week." She brushed past him with her luggage and then turned at the front door and said, "Try to stay out of my panties till I get back, sissy. If you can, that is." The week passed slowly for David who awaited Sharon's return with a mixture of dread and muted anticipation. He found himself spending a good deal of his working day vacillating between fantasies of disaster and fantasies of titillating degradation. In the former Sharon exposed him as a sissy to his peers, took control of his business and left him in ruins as his taste for heels became the laughing stock of the company. In the latter the exact same thing happened but the burden of ostracization was lifted by a glorious elation over his public sissyhood. Humiliation was its own reward. His dreams were similarly bifurcated into tortured scenarios of his unraveling public life and extended reveries with a big hair motif. Sometimes the segues were abrupt, starting with the despair of the gutter and ending with sheets clinging with spunk. Invariably he would wake up in a cold sweat, imagining Sharon's heeled footsteps pacing the kitchen linoleum. On Friday his High Noon anticipation had reached such a fevered pitch that work was impossible. Normally, he kept a magazine called "Guys in Drag" in a bottom desk drawer for his after hours perusal. Now at 3 in the afternoon he had it out on the front desk and was examining it listlessly when Sharon burst past the flimsy secretarial barrier he'd erected. She looked stunning with her blonde hair newly coiffed into an efficient but sexy French braid. When she caught him hastily throwing the magazine into the drawer she put her foot on his hand as he tried to push the drawer closed. She looked down at the lurid cover which displayed a glamorous blonde drag queen lounging on a sofa, his overly large genitals in repose. "I can't believe I married you." "What. . . what are you going to do?" he said tremulously. "What are you going to do?" she mimicked disdainfully. "I'm going home to take a long, hot bath and then Rob and I are going out for dinner. Is that what you wondered about?" "I meant about . . . " "Your sissyhood? Oh, many things. I had the best time shopping for your new wardrobe, sissy." "New wardrobe?" "And I've made arrangements with some professional people to help out with your big metamorphosis." "Metamor . . ." "You're going fulltime, darlin'." "Fulltime? What do you mean?" "This conversation is a bore. I'll see you tonight. Maybe. Sleep on the couch, okay?" she said as the door slammed behind her. He stayed at a motel that night. Early the next morning he drove back to their house in the hills. As he put the key up the lock the door suddenly opened and Rob strode past him with scarcely a glance in his direction. He was doing a poor job of stifling a laugh. David walked to the kitchen, got a glass of water from the tap and then he went to the bedroom. Sharon was bent over, brushing her golden mane with brisk downward strokes. She wore a half slip and black brassiere. "Well, where have you been? Out tomcatting? No, that's not your style. Streetwalking?" she said straightening up quickly so that her thick blonde curtain of hair dreamily drifted down over her shoulders. She didn't wait for a reply before turning back to the mirror. After self consciously adjusting a bra strap she resumed brushing. "I've moved you into the big guest room. You'll be more comfortable there and you can come and go through the maid's entrance. Why don't you go take a look at your new room, sissy." David left her and wandered down the hall to the east wing of the house. He was shocked to find the guest room had been transformed over night into a pink den of femininity. An eight foot long vanity with a garish Hollywood make up mirror encircled by bulbs had replaced the staid oak chest of drawers and the bed now sported a pink satin coverlet with flouncy skirts trailing to the floor. The windows were similarly draped in gauzy lace. On top of the vanity four newly coiffed wigs were poised on wig stands with identically pert faces that stared at him expectantly. He walked to the vanity and opened a drawer. Row upon row of false eyelashes batted up at him. He opened another drawer. Eyeliner, rouge, emollients. And another. Bobby pins, curlers and a pink shower cap. Now his heart was beating wildly as he ran to the walk in closet. His heart sunk when he saw the long poles were empty. A single box on an upper shelf at the back of the closet was the only object in the entire closet. He walked in and was retrieving the box from the shelf when he heard voices in the bedroom. Presently Sharon appeared in the closet doorway, her shapely silhouette backlit by sun from a nearby window. She was joined by another silhouette and the dark shadows began speaking. "Is that the sissy, Mrs. Hausman?" "Yes, isn't he precious." "He'll make a darling girl, I'm sure." The box dropped from David's tremulous hands, its contents dumping out as it hit the soft carpeting and a fan of black and white photographs spilled out of a brown manila envelope. He picked them up. They were all of him in drag. Pictures of him mincing across the bedroom in his maid outfit, pictures of him combing out his long brunette wig, pictures of him in brassiere and half slip, his erect cock straining under the tricot and pictures of him sitting on the bed and masturbating. "Oh, do those belong to you, sissy?" Sharon said mockingly and the two women giggled. "What do you plan to do, Sharon?" David said finally, his voice cracking. "What do you plan to do, Sharon?" the other woman mimicked with deadly accuracy. They laughed again. "Come out of the closet, sissy and meet Miss Nancy." David advanced cautiously, moving between the two women who seemed to snicker as he passed. Miss Nancy was a comely brunette dressed smartly in a gray linen suit. She wore her hair in a short page boy and her make up was so glossy and perfect that she could easily have been an agent of Mary Kay which she happened to be. "Miss Nancy is going to be your personal trainer. Isn't that exciting?" Sharon said with a wide mocking grin. "Personal trainer?" David said hesitantly. "I'm going to turn you into a proper lady's maid, David," Miss Nancy said. "Don't worry about the business, honey. Rob and I will take care of that. The important thing is that you get the fulfillment you've longed for all these years." "But Sharon, . . . this is insane. I'm your husband." "Correction, you're a fucking sissy and I don't want you calling me Sharon anymore by the way. It's much too familiar for a maid." "Oh, really, well I happen to own this house, you know." "Not anymore, sissy girl. My lawyers found you incompetent and unable to attend to your affairs this morning." "Incompetent?" "Oh, I'm so sorry, sissy. I showed them your pictures." "Pictures! You showed them . . . Well, what does that prove?" "It proves you need a serious makeover, sissy," Miss Nancy interjected. The two women laughed. "Listen, I don't have anymore time for this. Miss Nancy will tell you what to do. Have fun girls." "Sharon!" His beautiful blonde wife wheeled round and shoved her finger under his nose, "I told you not to call me that anymore . . . sissy." Then she was gone. David turned to Miss Nancy. She was grinning. He burst into tears and flung himself on the bed. "Stop whimpering and get up!" Miss Nancy yelled. "I can't stand whiny little sissies. Come on, get up and pull yourself together. We're going to take a little drive to my house." David stopped crying and looked at her stern face looming over him. "Come on. Let's go! You're going to make us late." "Late for what?" "I'm leaving in one minute. And you're coming with me, sissy. Now get up!" she screamed. David rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up. He started to blubber again. Miss Nancy hit him hard across the face. "I said stop it and I meant it!" She took his arm and pulled him up and then bullied him down the corridor to the entrance way. Sharon appeared in the foyer to see them off. "Call me if she gives you any trouble," she said and David burned with the knowledge that she was addressing Miss Nancy. Half an hour later after Miss Nancy's Toyota had cruised through an endless suburban maze she pulled up into the driveway of a sprawling ranch style house, opened the garage door with her electronic beam and drove in. The door shut behind them and the garage withdrew into total darkness. Miss Nancy said, "Shit, the bulb's burned out. Stay in the car till I turn on the switch." She got out and a few moments later the door on his side opened and he was yanked from the car by unseen hands. He stayed conscious long enough to feel a sharp jab in his thigh and then his mind went dark too. The next few hours or days or weeks went by in a hazy river of disjointed images, half remembered phrases and strange fleeting scenarios cribbed from a television hospital show. The whiteness of starched uniforms, the smell of ether, tubes, vials, screens with lines etched in green moved nervously up and down, hushed voices and laughter, girlish giggles and then pain in his chest. A searing pain that he might have thought was a heart attack if he could think. Every now and then he thought he glimpsed Sharon staring at him. Or Sharon and Miss Nancy. Or strange garishly made up women, gaping at him from a doorway and whispering, laughing. Or Miss Nancy in a nurse's uniform, standing over him, watchfully. He tried to form a sentence but his lips were made of lead and then he would drift back into a dreamless sleep. Finally, one day he became aware of movement in the room and his eyes following a nurse as she adjusted a tube or placed pills on a tray near the bed. His head still seemed glued to the pillow but he didn't fall back into sleep. The nurse noticed his sleepy state of wakefulness and left the room without acknowledgement. In a moment Miss Nancy appeared in white. She smiled at him. "What have you done to me?" he asked groggily. "Done to you? Nothing. Why do you ask?" He tried to think but his mind couldn't move that fast and Miss Nancy motioned to the nurse. The bed groaned and began to contort so that David was sitting up for the first time in . . . he had no idea. "What have you done?" he said, his voice breaking down at the end of the sentence into short, tiny sobs. Miss Nancy came close to the bed, watching him as though he were not quite human. "What have we done? What have we done?" she repeated in a nursery school sing song. Suddenly she grabbed the flimsy paper hospital gown from his neck and he looked down in dizzy horror at his jutting chest. "We've given you tits, sissy." As soon as she spoke Sharon appeared in the doorway with Rob. Other faces appeared behind them all jockeying for a look at this brand new breasts. Sharon rushed in for a closer examination. "Oh, they're beautiful, Nancy. You do such good work. May I touch them?" she said, asking Miss Nancy, not him. "Feel free or should I say feel freely." David pulled the bed covers over his new bosom but Sharon quickly snatched them from him, yanking them out of his feeble reach. Then she ran her hand over the smooth rounded skin. Without looking up she asked, "How big?" "38 double D." Whoops of laughter and shouts from the women in the doorway went up. "All right." "Big ones." "Stacked." "Very nice," Sharon said to Nancy. Then, "How long?" "A couple more days and we'll begin." David's mind couldn't keep up with their brusque exchanges but now in a lull he managed to interject in a voice muted and muddled with drugs, "Begin wha?" Sharon turned to Nancy and smiled and then she rejoined Rob in the doorway, hanging onto his arm. "Let me know," she said, throwing him a backward glance. "I will." Miss Nancy motioned to the nurse and the bed began its loud mechanical whine, the ceiling drifted into view and he felt the nurse rubbing his arm with alcohol and the lights went out once again. When he awoke again the room was dark, the house was quiet. Slowly he remembered the events of the previous day and his hands rushed up to his chest to test this horrifying dream. But it had not been a dream. Firm globes of flesh hung off his chest. His fingers traveled over them lightly and then grasped them gently, squeezing them, and finally feeling their heft in his full hands. He was seized with a desire to see them and he slipped off the bed unsteadily and falling with a clunk to the carpeted floor below. He remained there for a brief moment before the lights switched on and his eyes struggled to see. The nurse's face appeared hovering over him, her eyes were laughing. "What are you doing down there?" "Getting up." "But you're down." "I wanted to see . . ." "You want to see your breasts. I don't blame you. They're gorgeous. And so big. Here, take my arm." He grabbed her arm and as she pulled him up he felt the weight of his bosom bouncing against his chest. It was a new sensation. And not altogether unpleasant. As he felt the floor beneath his feet for the first time in god knows how long he tottered back and forth trying to realign his sense of balance. "Come on. Let's go see," the nurse said, taking his arm and leading him into a darkened bathroom. His feet felt a terrazzo tiled floor and then suddenly the light went on and there he was, facing his full bosomed image for the first time in the mirror. He was huge. He bit his lip in horror and turned to the smiling nurse and began to whimper. "I'm . . I'm deformed." The nurse laughed. "No, honey, you're stacked." "But they don't . . .they don't . . ." "They will," the nurse finished. "Now come back to bed." She took his arm firmly and the light went out and he wobbled back to the bed. After she was gone he lay there in the dark, afraid to sleep, afraid to touch himself and finally he drifted into a series of strange dreams. In one he was working at this desk at the office when suddenly his chest began to swell underneath his shirt, growing and growing until the buttons popped off and the shirt ripped open. At this point the door opened and a crowd of office workers peered in. Sharon and Rob strode past the throng and began laughing hysterically as his breasts continued to grow larger and larger. Sharon threw him a black brassiere and a dress and he rushed into the bathroom to change but the bra barely covered a tenth of his mammoth bosom. Nevertheless he fastened it somehow and pulled the dress over his head. It was white sundress with big red polka dots and an elastic scoop neck collar. His cleavage was large enough to drop a letter into. As soon as he pulled the dress down around his waist he noticed that his hair had become long and wavy and his face was expertly made up. When he went back into his office Rob was sitting in his chair with Sharon straddling him. They were both naked. Sharon said, "Pump me, Rob while Sissy Big Tits is watching." In another dream, he is standing in front of a mirror. His face is pretty, not at all masculine and his hair is long and tied back with a big black bow. A warm feeling of good will and serenity is rushing through him. In his dreams Sharon and Rob and Miss Nancy hovered over him like evil angels, prodding and poking him as though he were a roast in the oven. "Is he done yet?" Sharon said to Miss Nancy in one dream. "Not yet," she replied. "Let's wait until it's long enough to style." Other figures moved in and out of his consciousness. Figures in white with condescending smiles and pills and paper cups. "You're getting up today, Debbie. Your long nap is over," a woman in white said one day. It wasn't until she'd swung his legs over the side of the bed that he realized that she was real, not a dream. Putting her arm around his waist she pulled him into a wheelchair. He was befuddled. Looking up at the attractive woman, he tried to speak but his voice was gone. His head was swimming in images and emotions that he couldn't track. She was speaking to him in low soothing tones but he couldn't really understand her. "You look so pretty today, Debbie. And you're hair's grown so long," she said as she wheeled him over to a sink and adjusted the back of the chair so that it collapsed backward. His eyes met dizzily with a nozzle of warm liquid and then he felt his long hair freighted with water, drawing his head farther down and he sank again into unconsciousness. "Wake up, Debbie. Your wife's here to see you," a voice said insistently. David moved sluggishly to wakefulness, instinctively aware of Sharon's impatient presence and still somehow eager to please her. "Can he hear you?" he heard her say. "Oh, of course. Here...he's coming to now. Aren't you Debbie?" There seemed to be something obscuring his vision, a scrim from behind which he saw colors and shapes and faces peering at him. And his peripheral vision was hampered on both sides by ...what? He seemed to be viewing the world from a shallow cave but when his hand went up to rub his eyes he found it constrained, locked with soft terry bonds to the arm of a wheelchair. "Sorry, Debbie. We'll take those off in a moment," a voice behind him said. "Where..." He stopped abruptly when he realized his voice had changed. The timbre was different. It was a breathy and cooing sound. "My voice..." he said in the baby soft mewl. "Yes, well, we made a few adjustments to your vocal cords. No more basso profundo I'm afraid. But you'll make a wonderful Julie London." "Listen, I haven't got all day. Is he going to come to the dance or what?" he heard Sharon say. "Debbie, it's time that you came out of your chemical cocoon and rejoin us," the voice was Mary Kay bright. "Aren't you glad to be awake for a change?" "What have you done to me?" he said in his new satiny whisper. "Home improvements, darling. Sheila wheel him around." The chair abruptly turned 180 degrees Before him was a large mirror. It was then the crying started. "I can't believe it," he heard Sharon say. "He was a sissy when I married him and he's an even bigger sissy now." David closed his eyes tight, hoping this was another dream but the vision in the wheelchair was still there when he opened them, blurred by tears but still real enough to cause him to shake violently in his chair. "Lucille, perhaps some medication is in order." It was Miss Nancy's voice. "How much?" the blonde nurse behind him asked." "Not so much to put him under this time." Then Miss Nancy bent over into the frame. He felt her breath on his cheek. "It's time we brought you into the world of light again, Debbie." Then the alcohol rubbed on his arm and the shot. He stopped fighting the constraints after a moment. After that he felt merely numb. "Let's open your blouse a bit, shall we? Perhaps you just need some air." Her hands worked their way down the pearlized buttons to his waist and then pulled out the blouse. He stared dumbly at the black brassiere which proffered his abundant bust to the world. "These are all yours, Debbie. Big ones. The kind you like so much." He turned his head to look up at her radiant face, his mind trying with difficulty to send a message to his tongue. "My... h_h_ hair?" he finally said, the affect drained out of his voice. "All yours, honey. No more hot, sticky wigs." "My face...look different." "Oh, it's your face, Debbie. We just tweaked it a bit." "My lips...so big." "Yes, aren't they? So suckably soft." "I'm a...pretty girl," he said slowly, his voice whimpering off to nothing. "Oh yes, a very pretty girl." Suddenly a dim light flickered in the back of his brain. The women watched as he panicked in slow mo, rolling his eyes towardh Miss Nancy. "My ...c_c_c_c_..." "Don't worry, Debbie. It's still there, small as ever." He heard Sharon's giggle and then the sound of a door opening, "Aren't you finished yet? We have a plane to catch." It was Rob's voice. "Yes, I think we can go," Sharon said, still laughing. Then in her businesslike voice, "Nancy, how long before she can work?" "Three months, tops." "Two would be better. I have a client who's interested," she said, twisting her lips around the last word in a strange way, even to David's drugged ears. "I'll try but you can only move so fast." Then to Lucille, "Take him to his new quarters and let him sleep it off." Suddenly his wife lurched into view, inches from his voice. She looked dazzlingly beautiful. "Bye bye, Debbie. Rob and I are off to the Italian Riviera. When we get back you can start working again. Won't that be nice?" Her voice was a sing song of sarcasm. "And this time you're going to be working for me." Then she went out of view and was gone. His head went slack in despair and he withdrew into the billowing cave of brunette curls that collapsed around his face. As Lucille wheeled him down the bright white corridors all she could hear was the soft whimpering voice repeating "I'm a pretty girl. I'm a pretty girl." By the time Lucille opened the door into his new room he was asleep again. "Are you still asleep?" David opened his eyes and saw a young woman sitting on the bed next to his. She didn't look like one of the nurses or one of Miss Nancy's assistants. "Who are you?" he said in that whispery voice he couldn't get used to. "Hi, I'm Donna." "Hi, I'm David," David said blankly. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, pull the hair out of his eyes and looked at the young woman that faced him. Though she was pretty and petite with a expensively cut shoulder_length blonde pageboy, he knew instantly that she was, like him, a simulation. They were very good he thought but they erred on the side of perfection. Donna's mouth, for example. It didn't just speak, it suggested, it insinuated carnality. And her hair. Its lustrous delicacy seemed stolen from a magazine ad. "They just woke you up, didn't they?" "Woke me up?" David said. "You know, from the dream state." "I don't know what you're talking about." "They put us under, do this to us," he said, cupping his breast. "And then....they wake us up all changed." his voice trailed off and he got up and walked to the window. "But why?" "I'm don't know. I've only been awake for three days myself. But I know we have to get out of here. And soon." "Why?" "I've seen things. Horrible things." "What kind of things?" David asked with more urgency now that he was awake. "You know who you are, don't you? You know what you were?" "Yes," David acknowledged sadly. "Well, some of us don't." "Us. How many are there?" Donna looked out the window again. "At least a hundred, maybe more." David found himself examining Donna's round bottom. He wore what seemed to be a uniform, white v neck sweater and a white pleated tennis skirt that flared out seductively from his hips. White tennis shoes finished out the ensemble. He looked like a rather over ripe trophy wife on her way to tennis lessons. A pert little bitch was he might have described her in a past life. "You're staring at my butt, aren't you," Donna said, still gazing out the window. "Yes, I was. I'm sorry...it's just that...." David said sheepishly. His hands gripped the window sill. "God, I can't believe this is happening." Suddenly, he turned to face David. "But we can't let it go any further. We've got to stop it now before it's too late. Come here and look at this." David walked to the window on unsteady legs. They were high up, 10 stories at least, and looking down onto a green carpet of lawn that stretched in all directions. Directly below there was a large swimming pool where bikini clad bathers frolicked in giggly hysterics. Even at this height their bountiful bodies marked them as changelings. Off in the distance tennis courts were populated by similarly endowed creatures, all of them wearing the tennis outfit that Donna sported. "They're all men like us. Every one of them. But they can't remember." "This is a women's tennis spa?" David asked. "That's the ruse. It's more like a concentration camp for bimbos." "But why?" "I'm not really sure. I just know that we'll be down there splashing around without a thought in our heads beyond keeping our tan lines straight unless we escape." The door opened abruptly and Miss Nancy and one of her nurse minions marched in. "So you girls have met. How nice. Comparing cup sizes? Well, I hate to interrupt your girl talk but you have a doctor's appointment, Debbie." David shot Donna a panicked look but she turned her gaze out the window. "Lucille, the wheelchair, please." "Your muscle tone is lax despite some rather interesting chemicals we've developed to counteract the effects of your long bed stay. So we're going to have to work on that," the doctor was saying. David tried to pay attention but his mind kept drifting back to Donna's remarks. "Horrible things...horrible things," he kept thinking. But it was hard to concentrate. He felt as though he were still behind the beat by a half step and when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror he was shocked to see that he looked as dull as he felt, his lips half opened, his eyes heavy lidded and glazed over. He felt his tumultuous curls falling over his naked shoulders as he sat upon the white padded gurney while the doctor probed and poked and then a little shudder of anxiety when he realized that he couldn't remember taking his clothes off or was he naked when he came in? They must have drugged him again. Miss Nancy's voiced mingled with the doctor's but they seemed remote though they were both only a few feet away. He tried desperately to comprehend what they were saying. "I think we need to work on resolving her 'body issues.'" was all he could make out before the voices lost their meaning totally. Though he was conscious at some lower level of functioning his comprehension of events was reduced to mere observance. Even when Miss Nancy bent over him and stared into his eyes and then pinched his nipples, his only response was a blink. It was in this state that he was wheeled into a darkened room and placed in front of an enormous flickering CRT upon which played hours of dancing images that he never quite grasped the meaning of. The headset on his head similarly seemed to report long strings of gibbering sound that despite its nonsensical nature left him in a state of complete and utter contentment. When he was wheeled back to his room the only phrase he could wrap his mind around was, "I love my breasts." He was relieved to find that Donna wasn't there. After Lucille withdrew and he was alone he walked unsteadily up to the full length mirror that occupied pride of place in this small space that resembled a cheap hotel room and pulled the sweater up over his head and dropped it to the floor. Then he studied his reflection. It was the first time he had really looked at himself since Miss Nancy and her staff had changed him. Despite his desire not to like what he saw he could feel and then see his face smiling as a strange elation coursed through his body like a warm fluid. As this bliss moved throughout his body it cut the taut string of fear that had bent him over with doubt and shame. He straightened up, thrusting his bosom out proudly and examined his lusty profile with glee. He drew his fingertips over his cleavage gingerly, letting his index finger course down the long deep cleft of flesh till it reached his brassiere. Suddenly he was overwhelmed with curiosity about what they looked like and he fumbled hastily with the clasp in front. Once again he felt a fresh wave of ecstasy hit as the brassiere sprung wide and he realized for the first time how deliciously large he was. "Oh my God...I'm so big." he said in a breathy whisper. "Oh my god, oh my god..." he repeated over and over, clearly enjoying the synergy between his newly curvaceous figure and the husky softness of his feminized voice. His hands now clutched his bosom, their tentative probing gone for the moment. He felt their heft and weight. He took the measure of his aureoles, circumscribing the bumpy perimeter with his fingertips and then letting them play over his nipples until they stiffened abruptly. For some reason this struck him as ridiculously funny and he began to giggle, then laugh as he pushed his shoulders back and forth and watched his breasts sway and swing into space on their maiden voyage. So enchanted was he by this simple, utterly animal joy in his own nakedness that he failed to hear the key in the lock and the soft brush of the door bottom against the wall to wall carpet. "Having fun, Debbie?" Donna asked acidly after the door shut and locked. Instinctively David's arms went up to cover his exposed bosom. Then he watched in horror as Donna rushed him and tried to pry David's arms off his chest. He fell back onto a bed with Debbie on top of him, his open hand pulled back and then swooping down to land a stinging blow across David's cheek. David began to sob. "Don't you get it! They're manipulating you. You think it's so great to have these huge tits. Next thing you know you won't remember when you didn't have them. You won't know who you are! Don't you see!" "But..." David protested feebly. "But what?" "It just felt good. It felt so good..." "Oh, God. They've already gotten to you. Don't you want to get back to who you were. Don't you remember who you were? Don't you want to be a man again?" "But how... how can we? They've ch_ch_changed us." "You think these balloons are permanent? You think we can't cut our hair? We can go back if we want to. But you have... to ...want...to," she said, dragging out the last words. "But they drugged me and I don't know where I am or what I'm doing." He was crying opening now. "Don't you think I know that." "But...but...how can I defend myself." "With these." Donna pulled himself upright and peeled off his sweater. Then he unhooked his brassiere and letting his breasts bounce freely, pulled them apart to reveal a tiny piece of flesh colored surgical tape affixed to the side of his breast. He ripped it off, wincing only slightly from the pain. On the underside of the tape were three tiny green pills. "What's that?" "Stun blockers. One of these will counteract the effect of drugs. You'll be bored to death when they bombard you with the subliminal tv show but your brain will be able to resist the reprogramming and you won't forget you're a man." David burst out laughing. "What's so funny?" Donna demanded. "Forget you're a man? Look at yourself. You're not exactly a stud anymore. You're a busty blonde bimbo." Donna's face reddened to a bright pink. "You know, I was just thinking of something," David continued. "Why did you introduce yourself to me as Donna? Why didn't you use your real name?" Donna bit his lip tremulously as he moved up off the bed, turning away from David to rehook his brassiere. "Because...because I can't remember my real name," he said, his voice breaking with emotion. The next day as Lucille wheeled David down the hall, she made her first attempt at small talk. "Debbie, don't you love your new body?" "Oh, yes," David gushed, only half lying. He was unnerved by a sudden and unexpected pang of guilt. "But I do sort of like it," he thought to himself. "This is just the brainwashing talking," he countered. "I'm a man. I'm a man," he began to chant silently. After the shot was administered he could feel the drugs at war with each other within him and though he became woozy and faint, his brain didn't turn to mush like it had the previous day. He did as Donna instructed him to: Look blank and stare straight ahead. This time around, however, the chit chat of the nurses and doctor around him was audible and understandable. "What she's scheduled for today?" Lucille asked the doctor. "Bodywork II, Regression and Vanity I." "All three?!" "Yes, they're trebling up on his 'education' to meet his wife's deadline." "Is that wise?" "Wise? No, of course not. They'll fry his brain up good and he'll come out of here a babbling bimbo but that's Nancy's orders." The doctor peered into David's vacant face for a moment and said, "He's ready. Take him away." Five hours later they returned him to the room. When they were alone Donna said, "What happened? You were gone all day?" David ignored him and turned to look at himself in the mirror, pulling his hair up off the nape of his neck and primping manically. "Am I pretty, Donna? Do you think I'm pretty." "Oh, god, they must be double dosing you." "They are and I love it!" he said dreamily. "I'm prettier than you, aren't I, Donna? I'm so tired of this uniform." Donna grabbed him and held him in his arms, "Oh, baby, baby. Try to fight it. Try, baby." The dreamy look faded from David's eyes and his features twisted into the face of a frightened child. "I did, Donna. I did. But it was so hard...so hard." "I know, baby. I know." "Donna?" "Yes, baby." "Will you brush my hair?" "Yes, baby. Sit down on the bed." They sat on the bed together and Donna pulled the hairbrush through David's long brunette curls out as he stared into the mirror. "I did try, Donna and I know I'm a man. I really do know it but I just need you to brush my hair like my mommy." "Yes, baby. I will." "Donna?" "Yes, baby." "I wish my mommy could see me. I mean, I know I'm a boy but I just wish she could see my hair and how pretty I am." "Yes, baby." That night David collapsed into a carnival of vivid, colorful dreams. In one he became a little girl though curiously he still retained his womanly form. He sat in his mother's bedroom on the edge of an enormous bed and watched her at her vanity as she talked to him in soothing tones. "You're my little girl now, David." "Yes, mommy." She turned to face him. It was Sharon. "Come here, Little Debbie. Look at yourself in the mirror." He walked across the carpet and stared into the oval of glass. His head was a mass of ringletted curls with a yellow bow off to one side. "Mommy's so proud of you. Mommy loves you." You're not angry with me, Mommy?" he asked doubtfully. "No, baby. You're my pretty girl now." Suddenly, he heard a voice calling him from the window. Looking down he sees Donna rushing up to the house and calling up to him urgently. "Remember, we're men. We're still men." But she was wearing an antebellum gown with hoop skirts that floated like a big white bell as she moved and her hair was dressed in an absurdly tall Madame Pompadour coiffure. "Don't forget. You're a man, Debbie," his roommate said and as he spoke he whipped open a Japanese fan and began to flutter it madly in front of his soft rouged cheeks. In another dream he was standing in a kitchen with large black and white linoleum squares. He was frosting a cake in a frilly yellow apron while Sharon sat on a stool and did her nails. In a third dream he sits under an immense chrome hair dryer. He can feel the prick of the rollers and the heat. Sharon is talking to the owner of the salon but he couldn't hear her for the sound of the dryer in his ears. She looks so good in her tight capri pants and clinging leopard skin blouse, her big blonde hair in a flip like Mary Tyler Moore. He feels so proud that she is his wife and then a feeling of horrible shame fell over him as he realizes she couldn't be his wife. The chrome hair dryer abruptly pops off his head to reveal his own huge flip. He hears a banging on the salon window and turns to see Donna leaning languorously against a lamppost, applying her lipstick in small white gloves. She turns from examining her handiwork in a compact and mouths the words, "You're a man." But her message is undermined by a seductive smile, a wink and her wasp waisted pink dress and cute straw hat. She too has a flip. "This is the last stun blocker. You should have it," Donna said. "Shouldn't we split it." "No, it won't do either of us any good in a half dose. Go ahead. You need it more than I do." The key turned in the doorknob and David popped it into his mouth and swallowed. "Good luck, honey." "You too." "What's he get today?" Lucille asked her co_worker. "Submission and Femme Desire." "What about his roommate?" "Ummm." Checking a chart. "Same thing." "Double time for him as well?" "That's what the chart says." "They'll have an interesting night." Then to David, "Oh, baby, are you ready for suckee_fuckee with Donna?" David stared at spoth on the wall and mentally bit down on a bullet. Just as it had the day before the stun blocker wore off about half way through the reprogramming, leaving only his naked will to fight the pounding waves of sound and image that assaulted his senses. And will was not enough. In his mind he was swimming across an enormous blue lagoon. On the far side was the grassy bank where he knew he'd be safe on the dry ground of consciouness but the edge of the pool kept receding and the waters, warm and delightful, began to seem less threatening and more inviting until the division between his body and the water disappeared altogether. Then miraculously he reached the bank but as he pulled himself up out of the water something had changed. The difficult knot his mind had been trying to unravel was gone. He no longer knew what he had been fighting so hard to defend. A supreme happiness overtook him as he contemplated a simple phrase, "I am here to serve, to pleasure and to please." "Well, how is Our Little Big Debbie feeling today?" Miss Nancy asked as she encountered David walking back to his room from his day of reprogramming. "Oh, Miss Nancy, thank you so much," David gushed in his husky contralto now suddenly musical with enthusiasm. "For what, dear?" Miss Nancy asked, casting a knowing smile at Lucille. "Oh...you know...for everything," David said as a deep blush swiftly colored his cheeks. "I'm really...um...enjoying myself...now." Miss Nancy laughed in a slightly brittle way. "Does that mean you'll be a good little slut from now on?" A sudden cloud passed over David's shining girlish face. "Oh, but I'm not a slut, Miss Nancy." It was meant to be a declaration but it came out as more of a question. "Honey," Miss Nancy said, hooking her finger in the v of David's decolletage and pulling it toward her, "you'll be whatever I want you to be. Now why don't you go back and tell Donna how wonderful it is to be a slut." David's face remained dark for a few seconds, like a chastened child but the prospect of seeing Donna suddenly filled him with that sweet lightness. So engulfed in this euphoria was he that Miss Nancy's jibes struck only momentarily on his consciousness. He didn't feel like a slut. He felt like a young woman on the verge of oh, so many pleasures. And he felt loved and lovely and so very proud of his womanly body with its sinuous curves and bouncing curls. All the conflicted energies that roiled beneath the surface, the dissonance between his beauty and his brain had evaporated and in its place a bubbly wellspring of...there was no other word for it...hope. And there was something else that was totally new, perhaps the engine of all these effervescence, a desire to please, a hunger to be the sleek bosomy vehicle that delivers the pleasuring of a lifetime. At this point, he had no concrete idea of what that might involve but he knew this much: he wanted to suck cock and this thought kept his feet from touching the ground all the way back to his cramped Holiday Inn_like cell. So complete was his surrender that, for the first time, Lucille felt no need to accompany David inside the apartment and when the door shut he was amazed to find Donna lolling on his bed, naked except for his white brassiere. Gone was the paranoid fervor that had kept alive, against all odds, that rigidity which marked his body male despite its curvaceous packaging. Now he seemed as creamily compliant as a feather bed. His cock in repose, lolled between his white thighs peacefully, balls shifting and rising slightly as he turned to look at David. "Hi," he said shyly. He made no effort either to conceal or expose his naked member. There was no shame here. "Hi," David returned with a beatific smile. "Too hot?" "Yeah, I guess." "Me too," David said, pulling his sweater up and off. He walked to the mirror in mock demure steps and then half watching himself and half watching Donna watch him, he unhooked his brassiere and let his breasts float freely, swaying just enough to send a shockwave through the air as their graceful curves moved into the space vacated by guilt and complexity and shame. It was all very simple now as he gathered up handfuls of curls and pulled them up off the nape of his neck and playfully pouted into the mirror. "Like it up?" he asked Donna, watching his hand move to finger his languorous cock. "Oh, yes." David let his hair drop so that it fell playfully into his face and then with a strangely calm ease of purpose, hooked his thumbs in the elastic waistband of his skirt and pulled it and his panties slowly down over the smooth apricot curve of his buns. He was not hard. Stepping out of the skirt he turned to face Donna, cupping his bosom with both hands. "I'm really big, aren't I?" he said with muted amazement. "I'm big too, you know," Donna said, unhooking his brassiere, in mock competition. "Come sit by me and let's compare." David, sinuous, model tall and proud walked the short distance as though it were a catwalk star turn and then fell back on the bed with a bounce. They stared at each other for a moment and then David's hand found Donna's cock and began to move it between his fingers like a coin in a magician's hand. Donna let him touch it without comment or concern, replying only with a languid smile until, magically, the coin began to stiffen. Then, he leaned forward and kissed his roommate, their breasts bouncing together. Now his hand found the other's cock and teased it to hardness as they necked and giggled past embarrassed reticence into the coursing passion that enveloped their eager new female bodies. (Sing this part out loud, you'll have to supply your own music I'm afraid) When the sheets were good and wet they slept. And all the secrets they had kept were spent or buried in their dreams, a dent just made, a bough just bent I wish these stories paid the rent What? No fuckin' denouement? Okay, okay...here's how it ends. Debbie nee David and Donna, despite a harmonious first union, break up after a trying test of wills to decide who is top and who is bottom. A scandal ensues after a lurid series of cheese and beef combo cake photos are circulated at the enormously successful corporation that Sharon has stolen from David now Debbie who works there as a men's room attendant where her chief duties are rearranging the bonsai on the sleek marble tables in the room adjacent to the beautiful faux copper finished stalls with round locks that say "Empty" or "Preoccupied." The shock of turning a corner and finding a woman in white short shorts, jogging brassiere and white stiletto pumps, her hair beautifully and somewhat anachronistically coiffed high up on her head, clipping away at the tiny pines and miniscule maples never seems to wear off. For an extra quarter Debbie nee David will follow an exec into a stall and graciously, elegantly relieve him of every pent up drop of spunk that corporate life has left him. She often waves them off with a foamy smile as she brushes her teeth manically and then applies a fresh coat of gloss for the next boss with a bone to toss her way. Is she happy? Well, let's see what she has to say. Thanks for asking. Yes, I guess I'm happy as any masturbatory construct has a right to be. I've got my cat and my garden and this fall my children's book, "The Littlest Drag Queen" will be made into a animated movie for the larnin' channel. It's been a pretty good life so far. My years as a debutante are numbered and I know that. But I look forward to playing the stern auntie or mean mother_in_law in some future Leigh de Santa Fe opus. I feel I can bring a real two dimensionality to the somewhat thankless role of plot engine and I'm genuinely excited about the prospect of having my own sissies to mimic and taunt. You'll have to excuse me now. I've got some little trees that need my attention. Whose woodies these are I think I know His mind is in the gutter though He will not see me stopping here to pretend for an hour I'm queer the end