Portrait
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Portrait free porn video
Portrait
by Ellie Dauber
In my Mother's family, the custom has always been that the first son was
named for the father's father; and the second son, named for the mother.
My parents honored that custom with my older brother, who was christened
Frank Grey, Jr. But, when my Mother was pregnant with me, it was her
father, Doriann Michaels, who asked that the custom be broken, saying,
"Who wants his grandson to have to suffer with being known as Doriann
Gray? As soon as the other kids learn about that stupid story, he'll never hear
the end of it."
Grampa Dorry died unexpectedly just before I was born. Mother was a
stubborn woman who loved her own father very much. She insisted on
honoring the tradition. As a compromise, I was named Doriann Michael
Gray, and I grew up using both "Dorry" and "Mike" as nicknames.
****
About a year ago, I moved into my current apartment. It was a fairly roomy
apartment: very large living room, kitchen, bedroom, and bath, and in a
pretty good location. I was surprised to get it -- particularly for as little as I
had to pay. The rental office said that they'd had trouble finding a tenant for
it, even though the people in the rest of the building seemed happy enough.
My neighbor, Stavros "Something-or-Other" and I shared a common wall
between our two bedrooms. He had seemed like a nice enough guy, an older
man, about seventy I guessed, of Eastern European descent, who walked
straight and erect as a soldier on parade, his bushy white eyebrows and full
mop of curly white hair flashing like banners in the light. I tried to talk to him
the few times we passed in the hall or met by our respective doors, but we
never really hit it off.
Part of the problem was that I ran a computer service out of the apartment,
which meant I was home all day and needed the place fairly quiet for my
work. Stavros also stayed in most of the day, but his idea of relaxation was
playing music. Loud music. All day I could hear that damned violin of his
screeching away, just off-key enough to set my teeth on edge. And definitely
enough to ruin any chance I had of concentrating on my work.
I hoped that somebody else in the building might complain, but it seemed that
he and I were the only ones in it during the day. He stopped playing about
four and generally went out. He must have had some night job or something,
because he never came in before eleven or twelve. Then he generally went to
bed.
I wasn't making a detailed investigation or anything. The walls in that
building were kind of thin. I could hear his door slam when he came or went,
and he talked to himself when he came home and got ready for bed. Nothing
in a language I could understand, but I could hear his voice through the
bedroom wall.
I tried leaving notes on his door about the playing. Nothing nasty. Just
explaining that I also was home during the day and asking if he could play
more quietly or in another part of the apartment. My living room had to
double as my office, since clients sometimes came to discuss business. If he
could just play quietly in his bedroom, I asked, everything would be fine.
One note even said that I enjoyed his music as a background, but that it was
too loud to let me concentrate on my work.
Nothing worked. Sometimes it seemed like he waited until he heard me
typing at the keyboard of my PC before he'd start playing. (I said those walls
were thin.) He also left me a couple notes saying that, since he had lived in
the building for years, he had first rights on whether there was music or not
on our floor. He also said that nobody else had ever complained, and that I
was the first person not to have the good taste to appreciate his music.
After two weeks of his noise, I was falling behind schedule on a couple of
important jobs. In desperation, I called the office of the company that
managed the building. I was lucky, he was playing particularly loudly and
off-key that day. All I had to do was hold the phone, so the guy at the other
end could hear. He agreed that it was a real problem and said that he would
try to help.
****
Three days later, there was an angry knocking at my door. It was Stavros.
"So, coward," he fumed, "because you could not get your way, you run like
little girl to the landlord. He send me letter that say I must stop my music."
Stavros threw a crumpled up sheet of paper at my feet. When I bent down to
pick it up, he yanked at my head, pulling loose a bit of hair. I yelled and told
him to leave.
"Stavros go," he said, suddenly smiling. "Stavros stop the music for a while,
but he stop you for good." He turned and was gone through his own door by
the time I stood up. Mercifully, there was no music. I uncrumpled the paper
and read:
Dear Mr. Stanipopoulis:
Your neighbor, Mr. Doriann M. Gray, has complained about incessant and
loud noise coming from your apartment throughout the day. We have
investigated and found evidence to support his claim. We must, therefore,
ask that you reduce the noise to an acceptable level -- if not stop it completely.
If Mr. Gray continues to complain, we shall have to consider possible action,
including, if absolutely necessary, the non-renewal of your lease at the end of
its current term in two months. We hope that such action will not be
necessary, and that you will comply with this request.
We will be checking back with both you and Mr. Gray in two weeks to
determine the outcome of this letter and whether any further action is
necessary.
Yours truly,
John Norman Mid-City Realty
The letter was a little harsher than I had wanted, but it seemed to do the job.
There was no music for two or three days. Occasionally I heard Stavros
muttering to himself through the wall. Once or twice, I thought I heard my
name mentioned, but I couldn't be sure. For the most part, there was blessed
silence. I managed to catch up on my work, even got ahead on a few long
term projects. I felt so good that I thought about knocking on Stavros' door.
Maybe we could work things out. I did have to take a break or go out to a
meeting at times. Sometimes I did research at the Library, and, of course, I
went out to buy food, run the occasional errand, etc.. Maybe we could work
out a schedule of times when I'd be out, and he could play.
I went over and knocked, but there was no answer. I went back in and wrote
a note,
"Stavros, please come over. Maybe we can work something out. -- Doriann."
I taped the note to his door and went back to work.
Stavros didn't show up, but a couple hours later, I heard a knock on my
door. There was nobody there, but leaning next to the door was a large
package with a note taped to it.
"Stavros taking care of problem. Will talk to neighbor soon as it over."
I figured that the package was some sort of gift of apology and took it in to
the apartment. I was glad that he seemed to be taking it so well, even if I
wasn't sure what he meant by "soon as it over". Really, all I wanted was to
get along with my neighbors and get my work done. I was really sorry that
there had been a problem.
I carefully opened the package and looked in. It was a picture of some kind in
a beautiful old wooden frame. I carefully lifted it out. It was me! I was
dressed in a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals posing in front of an old house
somewhere in the country. I had a feeling that the picture was intended as a
not too subtle hint that I'd be happier living someplace else. But the likeness
was excellent. In fact, the whole picture was almost photographic quality. To
tell the truth, I was kind of embarrassed at seeing my skinny arms and legs in
that outfit. I was also curious about how he'd gotten such a good likeness --
especially in such a short time. "It was almost like magic," I chuckled to
myself. If only I'd know how true that thought had been.
****
That night I had a strange dream. I could hear somebody -- no a group of
people -- chanting. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but I
recognized the language as the one Stavros spoke. I seemed to be surrounded
by chanters. I definitely heard my name mentioned a number of times, and
everytime with a laugh as if they found it funny. At one point, I saw the
painting. The image seemed to be shifting, but I couldn't tell what it was
turning into.
I thought of the dream as I woke up. I jumped out of bed and walked into the
living room. The painting was still leaning against a chair where I had left it. I
looked at it for a moment, then I noticed something. Actually, a couple of
somethings. My hair -- in the painting -- was shorter, almost a crewcut. And
the hair on my arms and legs looked a lot thicker. No, I didn't look like an
ape or anything. I've got fairly fine body hair, not really noticeable except for
some on my chest, and was clean shaven. The "me" in the picture had
somewhat hairy arms and legs, and "he" was sporting a mustache and closely
cropped beard.
I shook my head trying to figure out what had happened. Had somebody --
Stavros? -- gotten into the apartment to change the picture. Then I noticed that
my own hair was longer. I felt it brush against my neck when I'd shaken my
head. I looked down at my arms and legs and saw that what hair had been
there was gone. Finally, I rubbed my hand along my chin. No beard. But
also no five o'clock shadow, which was definitely strange, since I hadn't
shaved in a day.
I checked my reflection in the small mirror on the inside door of the living
room closet. Not a trace of stubble.
This was beginning to get very weird. I decided that I didn't want Stavros's
gift any more. I stuck it back in the box it had come in and went to get
dressed.
While I was changing, I checked out my body hair. Not a trace of hair below
the neck except in my groin, and the pattern of hair around my genitals
seemed a little different from what I remembered. The hair felt softer, too. I
was definitely spooked. I threw on some clothes, an old jogging suit and a
pair of sneakers. They seemed a little more loose than I remembered, but I
had been trying to lose weight for the past month or so.
I took the painting to a pawn shop a few blocks from the apartment. The guy
wasn't interested in the painting very much, but he offered me fifty bucks for
the frame. I'd thought about keeping the frame at first, but I decided that it
and the painting were a set. It was probably better to get rid of both. I took
the money and the claim ticket and headed home. Since I had no intention of
reclaiming the painting, I tossed the ticket into a trash can within a block of
the pawn shop.
I gto back into the apartment and went straight to the kitchen for some
breakfast -- well, cofee and a couple donuts, something I could eat while I
worked. I had a reprt due late that afternoon, and I still had some final details
to finish. I carried my breakfast into the living room and set it down next to
the PC.
The damned painting was back, leaning against the chair where it had been
when I woke up.
I stood up and fished out my wallet. The two twenties and the ten that I'd
gotten from the pawn shop were still in it. I had a quick thought about using
this boomerang painting to get rich. Take it to pawn shop after pawn shop
and keep the money when it returned. No, first, I liked to think of myself as
an honest man. I would get that money back to the pawn shop that day. More
important, I was getting VERY bad vibes about this thing, and I wanted it out
of my apartment and my life.
I noticed that there was a small note written on a "sticky" that was on the
frame.
"You can neither give away nor sell this painting until its work is done --
Stavros."
What work? Then I noticed that the hair on "my" head was now practically a
razor cut, just a quarter of an inch of stubble with the scalp clearly showing
through. I felt my own hair. It seemed a lot thicker than before, and it had
grown past my neck and part way down my back.
The "me" was still as hairy in the body, but his muscles seemed to be more
developed. He looked like a man who spent his day working out instead of
sitting at a PC. I looked down and my own body. My arms and legs seemed
to have grown slimmer and more curved. I realized what was going on.
In the short story, "The Picture of Dorian Gray", Gray stayed young and
handsome, while his portrait became older and more depraved in appearance.
Stavros had said my calling the landlord was the action of a girl. Somehow,
his painting of me was becoming more and more masculine, while I was
becoming feminine.
I grabbed the picture and ran for the stairs.
My apartment was in an old building with a furnace that was linked to the hot
water heater and that doubled as the trash disposal. I got down to the
basement and used a steel pole next to the furnace door to open it. It was a
warm day, but the furnace was blazing away. Nice hot flames flared up
through the open door. I tossed in the painting and slammed the door.
The painting was waiting for me back at the apartment, when I got back. It
leaned against that chair as if it hadn't been moved since I took it out of the
box the day before. This time, the note read:
"Nor can you destroy it. I will return when it's work is done, Midnight --
Stavros."
I kneeled down next to the painting and cried. I don't know, maybe it was the
first sign of a new feminine personality, maybe it was the situation. I cried
for about five minutes. Then I decided not to give him the satisfaction. I'd see
what would happen, let the thing do its worst. And I'd get Stavros -- get him
good -- when he came for the painting that night.
In the meantime, I still had to make a living, and female computer consultants
could make just as good a living, could do just as good work, as male ones. I
went back to finishing my report, just looking up occasionally to watch the
painting's progress.
About two o'clock, the "me" in the painting began to develop washboard abs
and what I once heard a girl friend refer to as "pects of steel". I looked down
and watched as my waist rose and narrowed, my hips widened. I couldn't
watch for long, though.
It was definitely getting to me, and I felt the need to talk to somebody. I
speed-dialed Jack Tressler. Jack was a lawyer; a pretty good one from what
I'd heard. He and I had met a couple years ago, when I consulted for him on
a copyright case. We'd hit it off and continued as friends; playing tennis once
a week, doing the bar scene together every so often, that sort of thing.
"Finch, Day, and Tressler," the receptionist answered. "How may I direct
your call?"
"I'd like --" I stopped short. That wasn't my voice. I looked over at the
picture again. "He" was rapidly losing his neck in a mass of muscles. Which
meant that my neck, including my vocal chords, were rapidly becoming
feminine. I touched it with my fingers. Sure enough, no Adam's apple. There
was no way that Jack would believe it was me. "I'm sorry, wrong number,"
I said and hung up the phone and went back to work.
As I worked, I began to feel an uncomfortable scratching and stretching
sensation on my chest. By 3:30, when I e-mailed the finished report to my
client, I was sporting rather impressive 38C breasts. My fingers were getting
longer and slimmer. I had shaped fingernails about a half inch long by four.
My other self's face began to change again about then. His jaw got wider and
firmer -- or, at least, that's the way it looked from how his beard changed
shape . And his eyebrows got much bushier, even long than Stavros'. I
looked in the mirror that -- by now, was next to the PC. My own face had
grown thinner with high cheekbones. My nose was smaller -- when I looked
close at the painting, "his had grown a bit angular, and I had narrow plucked
eyebrows. My lips seemed fuller, too, and I somehow seemed to have
developed a pout.
I didn't eat much dinner. I think it was as much out of fear of what was
happening as because my stomach was now much smaller. I was sitting
listening to some music, ironically enough, and glancing at the painting. My
other self was now a well muscled bruit, his new physique stretching the
material of the t-shirt. In fact, I think that he was turning me on a little. I was
staring at the painting like I used to stare at Playboy centerfold, and I could
feel my nipples getting harder and rubbing against the fabric of the sweat suit
that I was still wearing.
Then I noticed that something was stretching his shorts. He seemed to be
getting an erection, and it was enormous. And getting even bigger as I
watched.
That could only mean one thing. I reached down into my pants and found my
penis. It was flaccid, and no amout of stroking could get it hard. What was
worse, it seemed to be shrinking even as I was rubbing it. I reached down to
feel my testicles. They were still both there, but they felt smaller, too. As I
held them, I felt them pulling away, moving up into my body. The scrotal
sack was now empty and it was growing tight against my crotch. I felt for my
penis. It was maybe an inch long now and sinking down into the folds of the
scrotum. I felt things moving inside my stomach and pulled my hand away.
When I put it back, my penis was all but lost inside the two folds that
surrounded it. I put my finger in between the folds and felt the wall of my
crotch move away, sinking back into myself. It was over in about a half an
hour. I had started the day as a man. Now I was a woman, sitting at the edge
of a chair in her living room, and crying while she inspected her brand new
vagina.
The painting didn't change any more, and neither did I. I was a woman now,
but I didn't intend to be one for very long.
Stavros has said that he'd be back at midnight. I was waiting for him. I'd
gotten the pistol when I moved to the city. The Army had taught me how to
shoot at the same time it had taught me how to use a PC. I still practiced twice
a month on a range at the Y, and I was pretty good. I figured that I could
persuade Stavros to undo what had happened. Either that, or perform a .38
special surgery on his own genitalia.
Sure enough, just before midnight, there was a knock on the door. "Is
Stavros," came the voice on the other side.
"It's open," I said. I was still not used to my new voice, so much higher and
more musical that the original male version.
He came in. He looked the same as ever, but now he was wearing some sort
of green robe covered with ornate symbols embroidered in gold and silver.
He looked every inch the evil sorcerer. I was standing, leaning against the
couch facing the door. The painting was on a chair diagonal to both me and
the door, so both he and I could see it. He looked me up and down, almost
leering. "Now you see why nobody complain; why it not good to make
trouble for Stavros."
"Are you going to change me back, now? I promise that I won't bother you
again."
"No! Stavros been nice before. Change people back and they forget. They
just make new trouble."
I really didn't want to use the pistol unless I had to, so I tried to argue.
"There's nothing to stop me from making trouble as I am, either. Especially
as I am. People will get very upset to find out that there's an evil wizard
casting spells."
"People not know. Change is full change. Even the past. You call up your
people -- your Mama and Papa. They tell you they never had a son, just a
daughter."
"No," I said drawing the gun into sight. "You change me back, old man, or
I'll shoot you where you stand."
"Then you never change back. You go to women's jail."
"For what? For defending myself against a crazy old man who broke into my
apartment at midnight and tried to rape me?" It was a wild idea that had just
popped into my head, but I thought that it might work. If he thought that I
might get away with shooting him, he might be willing to change me back.
"Stavros knew you were crazy, but change take care of that." He was
smiling. Why was he smiling?
"Take care o what? The change is over. I've been a woman for over two
hours."
"Last part of change take longer. Look at left hand on painting."
I looked over quickly. There was something metallic looking forming on one
of the fingers. It took me a second to recognize. It was a man's wedding
ring! As I turned back to look at Stavros, my head began to spin. I felt myself
falling into blackness.
****
It was morning. I could hear the birds in the garden outside my bedroom, feel
the sunlight through the window on my arms. I felt warm and protected and
very reluctant to wake up. I rolled over and bumped up against somebody.
Somebody? Who the hell was in bed with me?
I opened my eyes to see Jack Tressler propped up on one arm and smiling
down at me. "Good morning, beautiful," he said. "Have a good sleep?"
"Um, I guess," I said, too confused to think of anything else.
"You know, I don't have to be in the office till noon. So, unless you've got
something pressing with the business of yours, I thought we could stay here
a while and..." Jack let the obvious suggestion trail off, while he reached
over with his other hand and brushed the hair off my face. What was going
on?
Suddenly a new mass of memories tumbled into my mind. I knew what was
happening and who I was. Stavros had solved the problem, all right, but not
quite as nastily as I had thought. But now, as my husband's hand reached
down to gently play with my nipple, I had other things to concentrate on. I
was Mrs. Dorene Gray Tressler, happily married these past six months and
about to be made love to by my sexy husband, Jack.
****
Back in the now empty apartment, Stavros crated up the painting. "Maybe
next tenant appreciate good music," he thought. In the meantime, he had
things to do. He sealed the crate for shipping, writing: "John Norman; Mid-
City Realty" on the address label. Stavros felt Mr. Norman's letter about the
music deserved a special response.
(fin)
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