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HEELS By: Deane Christopher Copyrighted: 1999 ******************************************************* Note to prospective reader: I think of myself not as a writer or an author, but as a surrealistic wordsmith, pioneering the literary art form of Out-based Free-prose. Therefore, in the following composition, any and all adherence to the rules governing the proper use of the English Language are purely coincidental. The reader will find the sentence structure has a marked tendency to be somewhat cumbersome, due to the extremely liberal use of adjectives. Also, the follow piece has its' fair share of dangling participles and a whole caboodle of hyphenated words. Another note to the prospective reader: The following story was based on a fairly simple, though admittedly far fetched premise and was allowed to evolve on its' own, surprising your most humble and obedient surrealistic wordsmith with some of the twist and turns it took as it did so. And yet another tiresome note to the prospective reader: The following story contains sexually explicit and transgender related material. If you are under age or are afraid that the perusal of such vulgar subjects might curve your spine, grow hair on the palms of your hands, rot your brain or something or other along those lines, the answers is simple. STOP! READ NO FURTHER! ******************************************************* HEELS Ostensible, Paul Meadows had purchased the pumps as a present for his wife. However, even as the perky salesgirl handed him the plastic bag containing the just purchased heels, Paul knew that that wasn't the case at all. Janice, Paul's wife of twenty some odd years or so, had a thing about her height. And do to that persnickety idiosyncrasy of her's, she had long ago foregone wearing any foot-ware with heels over two and a half inches. Even as Paul strolled out of the boutique with the bag containing the just purchased footwear, he knew that Janice, while appreciating the thought behind the purchase, would never - Ever! - wear 'em. Hell, Paul wasn't even sure if the heels were his wife's size or not. He had, on a whim, just walked into the boutique and bought 'em! And that troubled the livin' shit out of him. As he continued down the mall's upper concourse with his purchase in hand, a very perplexed Paul Meadows endeavored to fathom the reason or reasons as to just why in hell he had bought the damn things in the first friggin' place. Was Paul Meadows a compulsive buyer? No, not normally. General speaking, with the exception of vacations, Paul was reasonable conservative in his buying habits. Sure, every once in awhile, like most people, he would treat himself to a book or a CD or some new fishing tackle or something along those lines. But that was about it. That brought him to examine the next question. Did he have some sort of latent foot fetish that revolved around woman and their wearing high heel shoes? No, though, when push came to shove, he would fess up and reluctantly admit that he was a definitely a legman and that to his way of thinking, high heel pumps did have a marked tendency to heightened the attractiveness of an already well sculpted pair of female legs. "So,', Paul inquired of himself, 'just why in hell did you purchase the pumps?' Oddly enough, he couldn't - For the life of himself! - come up with an answer to that rather persnickety, if not, quintessential question. One thing Paul did know was: he wasn't about to turn around and march back into the boutique so he could return them. For some strange reason, he knew, on an intuitive level of his being, that once bought, the heels were going to stay bought. * * * His first thought was to regulate the purchase of the high heel pumps to nothing more than some sort of nonsensical whim on his part. However, as he slid behind the wheel of his car for the short hop, skip and jump back to the motel he was staying at, Paul came to the realization that there had been nothing whimsical about the purchase of the heels what so ever. Though it had been as subtle as all get-out, Paul arrived at the simple truth of the matter. He, though he wasn't aware of it at the time, had been cunningly, if not subliminally, compelled into buying the pair of stiletto heeled, dick-teaser specials. Initially, Paul Meadows had first caught sight of the high heels as he passed along the mall's upper concourse on his way to the food court. Fact is, he was a good two stores past the prissy little woman's boutique before it consciously registered that there had been a pair of black stiletto heeled pumps in the lower right hand corner of one or anothers of the boutique's entry-way display windows in the first place. For some reason or another, though he was never sure as to what compelled him to do so, Paul Meadows found himself making an abrupt turnabout. In short order, he was standing in front of the boutique, gazing, somewhat befuddled, down at the heels. 'Yes sir re-bob!', he sarcastically chided himself. 'They're heels alright! Your standard issued, black, pointy toed, high heeled opera pumps!'. However, Paul Meadows' inspection of the slender heeled footwear only lasted a brief second or so. Then, having gained conformation that he had seen exactly what he had thought he had seen when he had initially past by the boutique, a slightly bemused Paul Meadows, without another thought about the pumps, was once again making his way to the mall's food court and a late afternoon lunch. As he sat at one of the food court's tables, steadily devouring a rather tasty hot roast beef sandwich and the mound of fries it was so succulently buried beneath, Paul's thoughts only strayed to the high heels he had recently taken note of on one just one fleeting, extremely short-lived occasion. As he clandestinely eyed the passersby as he sat there munching away at his food, Paul took note of a rather nice looking young woman, who's attractiveness, he speculated to himself, would have been highly enhanced had she been wear the stiletto heeled pumps he had so recently taken note of, instead of the ugly and unflattering, multi-strapped, bulky-soled, deep-sea diver emulating, foot-gear she was so unattractive sporting. Then, having polished off his lunch without another thought to the stiletto heeled opera pumps, Paul Meadows deposited his trash in the appropriate receptacle and, with a quick, look-see at his watch, just to assure himself that he still had plenty of time to catch the movie he had opted to take in that afternoon, he set off towards the other end of the mall, casually traversing the opposite side to that upon which the aforementioned boutique was situated. As he made his way along the upper concourse's balcony-like mezzanine, Paul, as was his wont, passed his time by casually glancing at both shops and shoppers. Oddly enough, having caught a fleeting glimpse of the boutique that was up ahead and off to his right, Paul Meadows, at the first opportunity presented to him and, without a conscious thought as to the impetus as to why he did so, altered his path and, using one of the upper concourse's bridge-like crossovers, passed over to the far side of the divided open-air mezzanine so as to ensure that his travels would once again afford him yet another inspection of the heels. Strangely enough, having gone to all that trouble, Paul didn't so much as slow his pace as he came abreast of the boutique and the display window where-in the pumps were to be seen. Hell! As strange as it might seem, given what occurred later that afternoon, shortly after he had exited the mall's theater complex, Paul Meadows didn't slacken his gait one iota as he breezed by the shop. Truth be told, all Paul did as he strolled along was to affix his eyes on the stiletto heeled pumps as they came into sight ahead and then, keeping his gaze affixed on them, allowed his head to pivot back over his shoulder as he passed by and, without a break in his stride, continued to casually make his way along the concourse, his ultimate goal being the theater complex located at the far end of the mall. The movie Paul saw the afternoon was one he had been eagerly wanting to see, but ended up being somewhat of a major disappointed. Long on special effects. Short on plot. However, the popcorn had been delicious and, all things considered, Paul found the movies a more pleasurable way to while away the waning hours of the afternoon then having to spend it mulling around the convention hall, engaging in this, that or some other trivial and non-essential thing, or, if not that, sequestered in his hotel room, mindlessly watching one or another of the syndicated afternoon talk shows. Oddly enough, considering the fact that as soon as the flick was over, Paul Meadows, without a thought as to the impetus behind why he was doing so, made a beeline dash to the boutique, where he wasted no time at all in securing the services of a sale girl and purchasing the heels, not once mind you, during the whole entire run of the picture, had he given a conscious thought to the high heels, much less entertained the absurd notion of actually returning to the boutique and procuring them. And here's something else that, in retrospect, given the rather strange, in not bizarre, chain of events that the heels would begin to engender later that evening, once Paul Meadows tossed the plastic bag containing pumps unto the back-seat of his car, damned if he didn't come within a hair's breath of up and forgetting all about them. Truth be told, Paul was in the process of unlocking the door to his motel room when - all of a sudden - it dawned on him: he had absentmindedly left the just purchased heels on the rear seat of his car. 'Shit!', he mentally castigated himself. 'You'd probably forget your own head if it was attached! 'So what are you going to do... you big dummy dunderhead, you?' 'Do you leave 'em there... y'know, to temp a would be thief? Or... do you play it smart and shag your ass back out there and retrieve 'em?' Well, since it was definitely a no-brainer, Paul, who had already had to replaced one side window, not to mention a fairly expensive AM/FM radio/cassette player that some dastardly and dishonest so-and-so had made off with, opted to do the prudent thing, with that prudent thing being: returning to his car and reclaimed the heels posthaste. Oddly enough, Paul, who had decided to polish off what was left of the afternoon by taking a refreshing dip in the motel's heated indoor pool and there by, hopefully, work up some sort of an appetite for a late evening dinner, discarded the bag on his room's wall-mounted dresser, right alongside the TV, and without another thought to the heels contained within, busied himself with the task of changing into his bathing suit. Forty five minutes and a whole shitload of laps later, a refreshed, if not some what physically tuckered out Paul Meadows returned to his room and jumped into the shower. Ten minutes after that, having toweled himself off, Paul Meadows began the task of dressing himself. As he did so, his eyes caught sight of the decorative bag containing the heels and that brought him up short. "What in God's name,", he sarcastically inquired of himself, "possessed me to buy those bad boys in the first friggin' place? "I mean...", Paul, who had the troublesome habit of talking to himself when alone, chided himself as he withdrew the rather prissily decorated shoe box from the confines of the boutique's fancy and femininely logoed shopping bag, "...you know Janice is never going to wear 'em!" "You know something else...", Paul gruffly quipped, as he gingerly extracted one of the stiletto heeled pumps from the tissue paper lined box, "You really are a certifiable asshole... buying something as foolish as a pair of heels that your wife is never - Ever! - going to wear!" Then, unaware of the fact that he was never going to get up the gumption to actually go through with the threat, Paul Meadows assertedly proclaimed, "First thing tomorrow... right after you get through with your part of the presentation and you turn the proceedings over to your cohort Ed... you're going to get in your car and drive back over to the mall and return 'em!" Unbeknownst to himself, during his self-directed tirade, Paul, with a high heel in one hand and the shoe-box containing the other stiletto heeled pump in other, had backed himself to the foot of the room's queen sized bed, where upon, he gingerly, if not somewhat distractedly, seated himself. "Hmmm...", Paul, dressed only in a fresh pair of skivvies, mused aloud to himself as he began a cursory examination of the pump he so gingerly held in his hand. "Even if I do say so myself... they are rather attractive... and... I'd be more than willing to bet that had that girl over at the mall been wearing a pair of these bad boys... y'know, instead of those klunky, deep sea diver emulating monstrosities she had on... she'd a jumped a whole rating point! Y'know, as in: she'd a been a solid nine... y'know, instead of a lack-luster eight... "Hell!", he continued aloud. "Janice... if she could get past her aversion to wearing something with a tapering heel as lofty and as needle thin as these bad boys... would look absolutely stunning!" Paul's mere mentioning of his wife's name caused him to take off on another tangent altogether. "Damn!", he exclaimed. "I'll bet you that they aren't anywhere near her size! "I mean... even though her foot isn't in any way, shape or form, overly large... there's no way these heels would ever fit her! They're way... way... way to small!", Paul bemusedly quipped as he re-positioned his lower extremities; raising the outer run of his left ankle and resting it, in a very manly fashion, just above the kneecap of his right leg. Then, without any realization as to impetus as to why he did so, Paul took the pump he was holding and moved it alongside his newly re-positioned left foot, so as to allow for an impromptu, gauge-by-eye, stare and compare, size comparison. As expected, Paul's foot dwarfed the dainty high heeled black leather opera pump. However, though it did, Paul, who was feeling strangely curious, not to mention, uncharacteristically impish, brought the shoe around and poised it joshingly over his toes, as if he was going to actually go so far as to try the pump on. And try it on is exactly what Paul Meadows did. Incredulously, shocking the shit out of himself in the process, the stiletto heeled pump slipped smoothly and snugly onto Paul's up-raised foot. His toes, though they felt confined and a wee bit more constrained than they normally felt when shod, encased as they were inside of the pointy toed portion of the stiletto heeled pump, didn't feel as if they were being scrunched. "Well I'll be damned!", he exclaimed aloud. "It fits! The damn thing actually fits!" Then, as he sat there, looking down at his foot and the high heel which so incredulously adorned it, the absurdity of what had just occurred hit him like that persnickety and proverbial ton of bricks that you're always hearing about. "This is crazy! Absolutely crazy! "There's no friggin' way that that shoe should have ever fit on one of these size eleven and a half gunboats of mine! "I mean... it was way - Way! - to small!" Still, a thoroughly bemused and befuddled Paul Meadows did have to concede the fact that upon his left foot was perched what appeared to be your classic, woman's, pointy toed, spiked heeled, dick-teaser's special, opera pump. "Wait just a ding dong minute here! Either that damn shoe is bigger then it was... or...", his tone waxed thoughtful, "...my foot has somehow become a whole hell of a lot smaller!" A quick, if not panicked, stare and compare, employing both his un- shod foot and the other high heel, informed Paul, in no uncertain terms, that both of his summarizes had been dead on the money. The high heel that dangled so tantalizingly on the end of his lower left appendage was indeed quite a few sizes larger than its' mate. And likewise, his left foot was markedly smaller than his un-shod right foot. "What the f...", Paul Meadows was as incredulous as all get out. "What the shit's going on here? "I mean... am I whacked out or what? Perhaps.." Paul, who was grasping at straws in an all out effort to explain the phenomena that his donning of the heels had in some mystical way engendered, frantically speculated, "...I'm suffering from some sort of surrealistic delirium tremens... y'know, that are the result of some sort of LSD flashback or something... y'know, that are frankly preposterous... y'know, given the fact that I - Never! Ever! - messed around with that sort of shit in the first friggin' place... y'know, 'casue I knew - Right from the get go! - that messing around with that sort of crap could only lead to trouble..." Just then, just as his frantic tirade was beginning to pick up the pace, it dawned Paul that the idiosyncrasies revolving around the re-sizing of both his foot and the high heel it sported weren't the only things that were inexplicable out of kilter. His leg. With the leg in question being his left leg. The very appendage upon which dangled the stiletto heeled epitome of damn near every foot fetish's wet dream, from knee downwards, had also undergone a most remarkable, and to Paul's way of thinking, very distressing make-over. The most striking feature was, it was completely hairless; as smooth and silky soft as a new born's pink little derriere. Secondly, a horrified Paul Meadows was quick to take note of the fact, from knee downwards, his left leg lacked any and all semblance of its' former masculinity. Rather, from knee downwards, his left leg was the embodiment of everything feminine; well turned at ankle, calf and heel and as seductively attractive to his male mind as all get out. "Shit!", a tortured expletive escaped Paul's lips as his eyes alerted him to the undeniable fact that the femininity that had engulfed and, in due course, transsexualized the lower portion of his left leg was steadily climbing upwards towards his crotch. On the brink of panic, hoping to stem, if not bring about a complete reclamation of the affected appendage, Paul frantically reached down and none to gently, plucked the pump from off of his foot. The next half a dozen or so heart beats were fraught with an ominous sense of dread, as an extremely apprehensive and somewhat shell-shocked Paul Meadows sat there, waiting and watching, as he hoped and prayed that his very sexy left leg would revert to its' former masculine deportment. And revert it did. Quickly and efficiently Paul's leg progressively returned to its' former maleness. In somewhat less than the passage of a full blown minute of his hasty and panicked removal of the stiletto heeled opera pump, his leg was once again a very manly, if not hirsuted, appendage. Though his nerves had been severely shaken by what had just occurred, Paul, though thoroughly frazzled and in need of a stiff drink to help him get his shit back together, had enough of his wits about him to make a couple of logical deductions. 'Magic!', he incredulous speculated. 'As crazy as it sounds, magic is the only explanation I can come up with to explain what just happened! 'I mean...', Paul began to reason the thing out for himself as he busied himself with the task of pouring himself a more than generous amount of scotch, 'for starters... there was no way in hell that I should have been able to put one of those shoes on to begin with! Y'know, given how big these feet of mine are and how dainty those heels are!' That thought compelled Paul to return to the foot of the bed and make a quick comparison of the heels in order to see whether or not the pump that he had tried on had reverted to its original petiteness. As he expected, both pumps were the same exact size; adding weight to Paul's coalescing supposition that the high heels were infused with some sort of magical where-with-all which, he could only summarized, allow them to somehow do what they had just done to him. "I wonder...", he quizzically mused to himself, as he once again seated himself on the bed, '...would the same sort of thing happen if I tried on the other pump..." The answer: a definitive and resounding yes. Paul, who was generally a rather staunch adherent to the 'no balls - no glory' axiom, once he got up the gumption to put his question to the test, found that his right leg faired the very same way that his left one had. Once again, a shoe that never should have fit, did. Snugly and comfortable. And Paul, who now had an inkling of what might occur next, looked on with rapt attention as his right leg made a sensually smooth and progressive transition, going from a characteristically male appendage to characteristically female one in the matter of a few brief moments. This time however, unlike the previous time, a extremely intrigued Paul Meadows rode rough shod over his churning apprehensions so as to allow the re-sculpturing process to continue further up his leg. Oddly enough, once the feminization process had laid claim to his whole entire leg and, he assumed, right hinny cheek, it inexplicable came to a full and complete stop, leaving Paul with one masculine leg and one leg which, to his utter amazement, was as tantalizing and seductively feminine in its' appearance as a legman, the like of one Paul Meadows himself, could ever hope to feast their sorry eyes upon. One minute became two, as Paul sat there, admiring the shit out his femininely re-sculptured leg. Suddenly, it dawned on him, the leg - his leg - was doing a real number on his libido. Succinctly put, Paul realized that he was becoming as horny as hell and that his male member had begun to rise to the occasion. 'Shit!', he thought. 'Damned if I'm not getting a boner! 'I mean... Who'da thought that a guy could turn himself on by just gawking at his very own feminine looking leg!' Then, acting on a wild impulse, Paul, in an effort to reassure himself, took his right hand and slipped it beneath the elastic waist band of the jockey shorts he was wearing. A quick grope, followed immediately by a frantic grope, informed him that all was not kosher down there in and around his genitalia. While his penis seemed to be fully intact and, he could only assume, in relatively good working order, his right testicle was missing. Gone the way of the dodo. And though he had no right to expect differently, continued probing on Paul's part turned up evidence of the inroads of an anatomy that, heretofore, he had only encounter elsewhere. As his index and middle finger drew upwards, tracing their way along the multiple lip-folds that flowed, crescent-like, around the right-hand side of his already shriveling manly providence, Paul, who was well acquainted with such anatomy, given all the hours and hours he had amassed dickering around with that of his wife Janice's, knew - Without the shadow of a doubt! - that what he was exploring down there, was nothing less than developing lip folds a woman's vagina. Quickly, like Meatloaf's bat out of hell, Paul, who was more than a little traumatized by the find, yanked his hand out from underneath his underwear and had that spiked heeled pump off his foot in one frenzied, lickety split of a Chinese fire drill emulating motion. I mean to tell you. He was faster than fast. Dropping the shoe as if it were a hot ember fresh from a blazing hearth, Paul immediately rammed his hand back inside his jockey shorts, hoping, as he had never in his life before hoped, to find that those troubling new lip folds of his were already in the process of reverting... or changing... or whatever... back into the testicle that they had somehow, in some mystical, magical way, supplanted. "Shit! "Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit", the multiple lip folds were still very much in evidence. They weren't, to Paul's ever lovin' chagrin, changing back. Neither, he realized, was his leg. It was still as feminine in appearance as it had been before he so hastily reached down and none to graciously, removed the stiletto heeled pump. "Damn!", he felt besieged by a sense of abject hopelessness. "Am I going to have to spend the rest of my life like this! A freak! With one leg male! The other... about as feminine looking as a feminine leg can look! "Shit! I'll never - Ever! - be able to wear shorts or a friggin' bathing suit out in public again!" Then, as he sat there, perched on the edge of his motel room's queen size bed, sadly bemoaning the cruel and diabolical fate that the heels had inflicted on him, he gazed downward, only to become aware of the fact that the upper portion of his right leg was once again as manly as it had been prior to donning the high heel. A quick, to be almost frantic, hand grope of his groin relayed the knowledge that his genitalia had also returned to normal. 'Now that's weird!', Paul began to internally ruminate over the matter. 'The first time I took off one of those bad boys, my left leg started to change back almost immediately. However, this last time, there was a very, very, if not extremely troubling, delay. 'Now, I wonder why that was... 'What was different, Paul?', he posed the question to himself. "How come? How come, the first time you removed one of the heels your leg started to revert back right from the get-go, but the second time, there was a... for lack of a better way to put it... a bit of lag time... y'know, between the removal of the pump and the reverting process kicking in... y'know, that worried the shit out of you... thinking that you might have to go through life with a pair of legs that aren't... shall we say... in sexual sync with one another... 'Wait a second!', Paul hit on something. 'I think I might just have the answer! Trouble is, in order to prove out this new little hypothesis of mine, I'm going to have to put it to the test and that means: I going to have bite the bullet and try on one of these stiletto heeled dick-teaser specials again. "Let me see... Last time out, I went with the right one. So, tell you what we're going to do. I'm going to go back and use the left one for this little experiment of mine." So saying, Paul Meadows, experiencing a twinge of trepidation, picked up the appropriate pump and proceed on with his experiment. For the second time that day, Paul's left leg, under the influence of what he now incredulous believed to be a magically infuse high heel shoe, made the steady transition, going from a male appearing appendage to the balls to the walls epitome of a femininely sculptured one. This time though, armed with the foreknowledge of what had happen to his genitalia the last time out, Paul was ready and so, had the fingers of his left hand in place, so that they could monitor the changes which, he presumed, would occur in and around the area of his groin. Though expected, he was still unnerved when his left testicle began to atrophy and the concurrent blossoming of the very familiar multiple lip folds that are the hallmark of a female's vaginal orifice. Then, when he felt that process had run its' course, Paul glanced over to the night table and the digital AM/FM clock radio which resided there and made a mental note of time. Five minutes. He would wait a full five minutes. No more. No less. And while Paul nervously kept his gaze lock on the clock, tracking the passage of time, he absentminded continued to finger-grope and explore the rather convoluted and somewhat disquieting deportment of his loins, which he realized, were neither entirely male, nor entirely female, but a bizarre juxtaposition of the two. One minute... Two minutes... Three. Then four. And finally, after what seemed to Paul to have been an interminable wait, a full five had transpired. Paul move to the second phase of his experiment by reaching down with his right hand and removing the heel from daintily made-over foot. "Shit!", he exclaimed, as he took note of the fact that the toenails of his left foot - a very femininely shape foot at that - the very one upon which the spiked heel had but a moment before resided, glistened with the silver- white hue of a fresh application of nail polish. Trepidation mounted as Paul sat there marking time by finger-probing and prodding his strangely re-configured loins and repeatedly second guessing himself; calling into question his judgement by wondering if this little experiment of his had been a good idea or not. One minute came and went. Then two. Then three. And by the time the fourth minute rolled by, Paul was on pins and needles. Finally, the full five minutes had come and gone and just about the time that Paul was ready to give up the ghost and concede the fact that he had goofed - Big F'in Time! - the fingers of his left hand alerted him to the irrefutable fact that: on one hand, the multiple vagina-like lip folds were beginning to quickly coalesce into a single ridge line and that that crescent shaped, penis cuddling ridge line was in the process of flatten itself out and on the other hand; a little sack-like nub of skin had manifested itself alongside the left side of the base of the shaft of his penis and that that little nub was progressively expanding, growing steadily into a full blown, sperm producing testicle. Paul was both relieved and exhilarated. His theory, when put to the test, had passed with flying colors. "Okay, Paul!", he said aloud to himself. "You done good!" Then, in a more speculative tone of voice, he posed the question, "So, where to know? "I mean... do we continue to experiment with these heels... or... do we do the smart thing... the safe thing... and stick these bad boys back in their box; put their box in the bag they came in; stuff that box in your suitcase; get dressed and go grab some dinner?" Paul knew, even as he gave voice to it, that it had been a stupid question. While it was true that he was starting to work up a healthy appetite and would have to put some serious thought into getting dressed and going out to eat, he was far to intrigued with the heels and the mind-blowing, mind- boggling effects they had on his physiology to stop dickering around with them at the present. "I know! I know! There's no sense belaboring the point! That - If ever there was one! - was a stupid, crazy-assed question! "However,", Paul continued with his perennial habit of carrying out a verbal conversation with himself, "before we proceed willy-nilly with whatever we're doing here, let's take a minute or two and examine what we know and what we think we know... y'know, just make damn sure we've got all out duck in a row and we aren't making a wrong assumption about these heels and what the seem to be doing to this body of our's... "Okay! So, unless you're either dreaming or having some rather farfetched hallucinations Paul, it would appear that these pointy toed devils - as incredulous as it sounds - are invested with some sort of magical potential that allows them to... I guess you could say... re-proportion not only themselves, but also, the feet that they are being place upon ... y'know, so that they have the ability to... shall we say... accommodate anyone's feet who attempts to try them on. "And that's only the half of it! "Once on, they begin to... for a lack of a better way to put it... bring about a swift feminine re-sculpturing to whatever leg they happen to reside upon. "Also, though I think it prudent for me to play it safe and be more than a little bit skeptical about this particular supposition of mine... y'know, when it come to any and all forms of continued experimentation... it would seem that once this magically induced feminine re-sculpturing... or, whatever you want to call it... has run its' course... some sort of mystical clock kicks in and starts marking time so that once the spiked heel is finally removed, the reverting process is delayed... or, I guess you could say... kept in abeyance... y'know, until a like amount of time passes... "Alright! That brings us to consider the next question, with that question being: what will happen should I don both shoes at the same time? Will the feminization process continue to its' logical conclusion; re- sculpturing my whole, entire body and turning me into a friggin' woman? "Or, will it only affect my lower anatomy... y'know, turning me into a female from... shall we say... waist downwards? "I guess we won't know until we give it a try, now will we? "However... though I have nothing but a wild assed guess to base this on... my gut feeling is: should I allow the process to run its' course, it'll completely re-vamp this body of mine; turning me into a full fledged and - I can only assume - fully functional member of the opposite sex. "That brings me to my next question. Should these shoes turn me into a full fledged and fully functional female... y'know, physically... will they also bring about a shift in my mental make-up... y'know, in effect, quashing this very healthy male libido of mine while at the same time, investing me with a woman's very distinct perspective... "Damn! I sure as hell wish these bad boys had come with some sort of instruction manual! "Hey!", Paul, who was even then turning his attention to the shoe box which had contained the heels, exclaimed, "Maybe... just maybe... they did! Checking, re-checking and than, on the off chance he might have missed something, he made a third and thorough re-checked of the shoe box, bag and even went so far as to read and re-read the sale slip, only to come up with nothing that even so much as hinted at the magical aspect of the heels, much less directions for their use or even a timely word or two of caution, a somewhat perturbed Paul Meadows reared back and aired a healthy, hardy and heart felt, "Sh... it! "Wouldn't you just know it! Nothing! Meaning... I going to be operating in the proverbial dark! "Hell! Given the way my luck's been going here of late, these high heels might be right out of Rod Sterling's Twilight Zone and my sorry ass might just end up all friggin' girlifed! Y'know, like permanently! Y'know, with no friggin' way back to this present maleness of mine!" Taking a swig of scotch to re-enforced his decision to continue, Paul, who generally wouldn't have considered himself much of a risk taker, was so intrigued with the diversion that heels presented, figured, "What the hell! Since I've got nothing better to do tonight than sit in this room and watch re- runs, I might as well dicker around with these heels some more... y'know, just to see what in the hell happens... "However...", he had given some additional thought to the matter and had come up with a strategy as how to incrementally proceed with continued experimentation with respect to heels and how they affected his physical deportment, "I'm not going to be so foolish as to throw caution to the wind. I'm going to take it slow and easy. One small step - So to speak! - at a time..." So saying, a slightly apprehensive and extremely curious Paul Meadows, starting with his left foot and proceeding directly to his right, donned the spiked heels. Craning his head downwards, Paul was rendered spellbound as the heel engendered femininity flowed so gracefully and delectable up both of his lower appanages; re-sculpting them into the most sensual and seductive legs that ever troubled and beguiled a man's eye. Once again, even as the transsexualization process took hold, Paul's dirty old man aspiring libido kicked in. However, long before his penis could begin to rise to the occasion, it and its' corresponding testicle sacks were gone; supplanted by the slicking crease of the multiple lip folds of a clitoris equipped, vaginal orifice. Then, even as that realization set in that he was at that precise moment in time - gynecology speaking - a card carrying member of the fairer sex, Paul, in quick succession, felt his hips splay; his waist constrict; his tummy flatten and his torso take on a very eye-pleasing girlish tapper. Then, just as he became aware of the fact that his chest was a becoming a tad bit more convex than had been but a moment before, Paul, though he found that he was extremely reticent to do so, stuck to his game plan. Calling on every ounce of his will power, Paul, riding rough shod over his billowing curiosity as to how he might look as a full blown piece of feminine topography, forced himself to reach down and quickly pluck the high heels from off of his feet. Due to the fact that the transsexualizing process had never reached a state of quiescence, as it had when it had completed the process of sexually re-vamping one or another of his legs, Paul's body began to revert to its' former maleness within seconds of the spiked heels' removal. Within moments, Paul had his beer belly and love handles back. Short thereafter, his manhood. It was only when both of his legs were about halfway through the rigmarole of returning to their natural, muscular, hirsuted re-structuring, did Paul belatedly become cognizant of the fact that it hadn't only been his body that had undergone the heel induced feminization process. So too had his jockey shorts. Though his attention had been focused elsewhere, given the massive, if not mind blowing changes that his physiognomy had been undergoing at the time, Paul had only been peripheral aware that his skivvies had been caught up in the feminization process as well. Concurrent with the changes that had taken place in and around the area of Paul's primary sexual apparatus, the very same changes that had turned his manly prick and associated equipment into a female's delectable little crevasse creased pussy, his jockey shorts, caught up in the spell's magical transmutations as they no doubt had been, in short shift of an order, had been transmogrified into a scanty pair of low slung, white satin, bikini briefs. As with many things, that realization had a domino effect, triggering yet another. Once Paul registered the fact that his jockey shorts had, for a brief interim, been a pair of male libido enticing, male libido torquing, satinized bikini briefs, he got the distinct impression that his T-shirt had begun to be affected by the heels' magical influence as well. He remembered looking down and feasting his gaze upon a bare midriff. A very feminine looking bare midriff. A midriff that, under ordinary circumstances, his T-shirt should have handily concealed. Also, though he couldn't be sure, what with everything that was transpiring at the time, he had, just prior to his removal of the heels, the hazy impression that his upper torso had felt unusually constricted, as if his T-shirt had molded itself tightly about his femininely tapper upper torso. "Wow! That's something!", he exclaimed, having taken another swig of scotch, "Unless I miss my guess here... had I allow the process to continue, I'd ended up with a new set of boobs, trust up in their own, handy dandy white satin bra! "That's kind of nifty to know! Y'know, just in the off chance I decide to go whole hog and see exactly what kind of woman these high heels turn me into! "I mean... if that is I do decide to take the plunge... y'know, and let the transsexualization process run it course... should I opt to go out on the town sometime in the far distant, unforeseeable future... y'know, as a woman... it would seem that all I might have to do... y'know, to deck myself out in women's clothing is to get dressed... y'know, as a man... and then don the heels and let them do the dirty work! "I mean... though I could be way off base here... if the heels are going to change my skivvies into a set of women's undies... then... it stands to reason that there might be a fair to midldin' chance that they might do likewise with whatever clothes I might happen to be wearing when I put them on..." Having already made the decision to take the experiment to the next plateau, Paul, desiring to have a better overall view of the physical re- sculpturing process so that he could best gauge when to once again remove the pumps and there by trigger his return to his normal, male physiognomy, prudently opted to relocate himself. Picking up the heels from where they haphazardly lay strewn upon the carpet and placing them in one hand, Paul used his free hand to acquire the closest one of the room's two ladder-backed chairs and proceed to carry it and the heels to the rather confined, sink and closet equipped vestibule; the very same vestibule that granted the room's occupant or occupants access to the bathroom proper, for there, on the outside of the bathroom door was mounted, via the use of a half a dozen or so of those nifty, little, plastic, screw-in doodads, a somewhat makeup smeared and scuffed full length dressing mirror. Placing the spiked heels nonchalantly upon the sink's somewhat spacious counter top, so that they sat immediately alongside of the leather valise containing his shaving tackle, Paul took a brief moment to make doubly sure that he had properly aligned the chair, so as to optimize his ability to thoroughly monitor the progressive feminization and subsequent return to masculinity that his body would, in short order, be undergoing. Seating himself, Paul took another moment out to scoot the chair first forward and then backwards a time or two. Then, when he was completely satisfied that he had achieve the optimum vantage point from which to view the results of the next phase of his experimentation efforts, he reached over and procured the heels. Acting without hesitation or reservation, but not without a degree of internalized trepidation, Paul once again donned the stiletto heeled, black opera pumps, which in their turn, immediately initiated the male to female transsexualization the process. Paul, situated as he was in the proverbial cat- bird seat, was in awe, rendered spellbound by the changes that were being enacted on his body. Seeing was one thing. Believing - quite another. Yet the evidence was irrefutable. The heels that shouldn't have fit - did. And more to the point, a body that was in no way, shape or form female prior to donning the heels, was quickly and uniformly becoming about as female as a female body could ever hope to be. Paul was rendered flabbergasted as he sat there, intently watching his jockey shorts fluidly transmogrify into a scandalously cut pair of male libido torquing bikini briefs; knowing, with a sheer and utter certainty, that beneath their satin sleekness, lay the veed swath of vaginal hair, where in was cozily nestled that new little maiden head of his. Armed with the foreknowledge that distraction could be his undoing and that if he wasn't extremely careful this time out, he could screw up royally and allow the feminization process to continue - unabated - to its' logical conclusion. In other words, Paul was well aware of the fact that if he didn't exercise extreme caution, he could end up a body that was the culmination of the re-sculpturing process. And since he wasn't ready to take the final plunge into unmitigated womanhood as yet, Paul, who was hoping against hope to get a better look at those newly developing chest mellows of his during the first few moments of the retrograde phase of this particular experiment of his, rode rough shod of his curiosity as he staunchly affixed his gaze on his Adam's apple; knowing that its' disappearance would be the single for him to loose the heels on, what he had come to termed in his own mind, a pretty damn quick bases. Peripherally aware that his chest was developing an ample set of highly sensitized mammary protrusions and that his T-shirt had satinized itself and was well on the way to becoming a full fledged brassiere, Paul struggled hard against the urge to have a look-see and it was a very prudent thing that he did so. Had he lost the battle; had he looked, these no two ways about it. Even though he was more of a legman than a breastman, it's pretty much a given that he would have been distracted. And had he been distracted, given the steady progression of the feminization process he was undergoing, it's a given: Paul would have ended up with a body that was - Without a doubt! - the full embodiment of womanhood. Paul also understood that hesitation, like distraction, was a thing to be avoided at all cost. Armed with that knowledge, and fighting hard against the urge to grope the livin' shit out of feminizing self, Paul had his hands posed in the ready position, rest lightly on the outward arch of his seductively re- sculptured calf muscles. Then, just as his Adam's apple gave the first inkling of its' demise, Paul went into actions, running his hands down the back of his lower legs and flipping the heels from off of his feet in one fluid and succinct motion. Immediately following the extremely well executed and fluid act of divesting himself of the rather spiffy, pointy toed, spiked heeled feminizers, Paul, knowing that he had but a moment or so to achieve what he dearly desired to achieve, reached up and, cupping the underside of those bra housed, and amply distended mammary protrusions of his, he gave then a quick, thumb-flicking, titty tweaking accompanied jostle or two before he regrettable felt them begin to loose their conical mass and distinctly feminine definition. Acting promptly, so as to gain as much time for himself as he could, Paul took his right hand and thrust it, none to gently mind you, underneath the satinized waist band of the bikini briefs that his pubic regions were, for the time being, so sensually concealed beneath. As tenderly as he could manage under the oppressive time restraints he found himself contending with, Paul, employing both his index and middle fingers as probes, began, what could only be described as a cursory exploratory survey of that soon to be eradicated, love-juice lubricated, crevasse crease of his. Working back to front, Paul tentatively, if not somewhat teasingly, drew his minutely splayed fingers along the parallel ridge lines of his vagina's primary lip folds. Then, returning to the rearmost apex of that new, nifty, and soon to be supplanted little vagina of his, Paul, making double sure that he didn't go to deep, inserted the tip of his middle finger and began to draw it forward hoping that he could, without a lot searching, locate the elusive prominence of his clitoral protrusion. "Shit!", he exclaimed as his middle finger came into direct contact with what - he presumed - had been, but a moment or so before, the orgasmic inducing nub of his clitoris. Paul fumed aloud as he withdrew his hand. "Wouldn't you just know it! Just when I'm about to find out just how sensitive a woman's clit is, damn if the friggin' thing isn't well on its' way to changing back into my old trustworthy pecker! "Okay, pal!", he said to himself as he rose to his feet on a pair of legs that were still a whole hell of a lot more feminine than they were masculine and began to wobbly re-trace his path back to the wall mounted dresser and the glass of scotch he had deposited there. "I guess we've arrived at Shit-or- get-off-the-pot Time! "So...", he continued as picked up the glass and proceeded to polish of the remainder of its' contents, "...I guess the question is: do we go for gold? Or, do we do the smart thing, the prudent thing and get ourselves dressed and go out and get us something to eat? Y'know, because as intriguing as this shit with the heels is, Paul, you've got to admit: you're starting to get hungry as hell! "Besides...", he continued to verbally debate the issue with himself, "...should you elected to go whole hog the next time out, you have to take into consideration that you might well be buying yourself a one way ticket to femininity. "Meaning... me buckco! There's no guarantee what so ever that you'll get this masculinity of your's back. You could - Perish the thought! - end up a woman for the rest of your friggin' life! "Yes...", Paul, a loving and faithful husband, not to mention, a staunch heterosexual, who never - Ever! - so much as entertained even one single, solitary fantasy about what it might be like to function for a time as a female, found himself forced to conceded that there was always a chance of that eventuality, "...there is that possibility... however remote and unlikely that possibility might be... "However... my gut feeling is: that's not going to happen. I won't get stuck as woman. "I truly believe that once I remove the heels, and an appreciable amount of like time passes, I will revert back to being the man I've always been... y'know, much as I have been doing all along. "Beside... if the worst case scenario does occur and I end up having to live out the rest of my life as a friggin' woman... though I'll grant you it'll be one hell of an adjustment... involving a whole lot of shit that'll drive me right up the friggin' wall... I'll survive! Though it won't be easy, I'll do what you've always done! I'll make the best out of bad situation! "Yeah... but what about Janice? How is she going to handle it if you end up all friggin' girlified? "I mean... you know - Sure as shootin'! - that Janice isn't going to ever countenance any sort of lesbian tomfoolery! Y'know, involving the two of us! So, if you're thinking what I think your thinking, you can plum forget that crazy, wild assed notion of your's right now... you lame brained idiot, you! Because, as you well know, it ain't never going to happen! Not in a hundred... Not in a thousand years! "As mad and as pissed off as she is likely to be... y'know, should you have to bite the bullet and appraise her with the sad and awful fact that you gone and gotten yourself into such a mell of a hess in the first friggin' place... knowing her... knowing how much she loves and cares for you... y'know, when you don't deserve it... there's a better than even chance that she might just stand by you. Y'know, to help you deal with all the shit that's involved with being a woman. "But,", Paul optimistically countered his misgivings, quashing any further debate surrounding the ominous worst case scenario of ending up stuck as a woman as he did so, "that ain't never going to happen! "You'll see! Everything - And I do mean everything! - will be fine! You'll only remain in a feminized state during the time you are wearing the heels and for a like amount of time once you take them off." Though completely unaware of the fact, there was no argument, no matter how well founded, that was going to deter Paul Meadows from completing what he had started. Succinctly put, he was immersed within what some might call the Borg Conundrum, where resistance was, without a doubt, futile. It was a compulsion that had prompted Paul to buy the heel to begin with and it would be a compulsion, albeit a subliminal one, that would compel him to go the distance with the heels. Or, to put that another way, when it came to the matter involving the magically infused, feminizing, stiletto heeled pumps, Paul was no longer the master of his fate. The heels were. So, given the fact that his hunger was about to have a hissy fit, demanding appeasement in the worst friggin' way, Paul made a deal with both himself and his stomach. He would put the heels on and allow then to complete the process of changing him into a woman. Then, once full feminized, he would wait a full five minutes. No more. No less. Then, once the allotted time had run its' course, Paul would remove the heels, triggering, he dearly hoped and prayed, the restoration of his masculinity. After that, once his manhood was fully restored, Paul would get dressed and go out and get himself something to eat. "Okay!", he resignedly quipped, as he reached up and began to remove his T-shirt. "Decision's made!", he was emphatic. "I'm going to give 'em a go... y'know, just to see what kind of woman those bad boys are going make out of me... "However...", Paul continued, as he went through the physical gyrations required to remove his jockey shorts, "...this time out... let's do it in the nude... y'know, just so that I can get... what you might call... an unobstructed view of my all new and thoroughly feminized self..." Then, Paul, aware that he wouldn't have a clear view of the night table and the digital clock/radio which resided upon it, blocked as it would be by the room's closet alcove, prudently took another moment to pick up his trusty, handy dandy divers watch and, as he made his way back to the chair and the discarded heels, proceeded to strap it securely about his left wrist. With a deep, purging breath, a breath that clearly indicated his resolve in the matter, Paul, having piked up the heels, seated himself before the mirror and, without any hesitation what so ever, starting with his left foot, proceeded to put them on. Once again, Pauls Meadows was thoroughly captivated; rendered sublimely spellbound as the feminization process flowed ever so intriguingly, ever so gracefully upwards, re-sculpturing his body into that of a unmitigated temptress. Thirty second or so after he had donned the spike heeled opera pumps, Paul bid a fond adieu to his manhood and a gregarious Hi, how are you, to the neat little veed swath of pubic hairy that clearly proclaimed the fact that he his loins were undeniable that of a full fledged female. Shortly there after, his hips, waist and tummy underwent their own feminine brand of reapportioning. Fifteen or so second after that, Paul's libido, which was still as manly entrenched as it had ever been, went into over-drive, as he sat their, lasciviously gawking at a matched set of the most enticing mammary protrusions that ever troubled a dirty, if not, lecherous old man in the offing's eyes. And speaking of eyes, a few seconds after his Adam's Apple went the way of the dodo, Paul was rendered completely and unquestionably flat out flabbergasted as the two azure blue orbs of his became, in the flowing of an instance, the twin centerpieces of the most angelically, the most femininely exquisite visage he had ever - in his whole, entire life - beheld. Unquestionable, had they been anyone else's eyes but his own, Paul would have been rendered utterly beguiled and captivated by them. As it was, it took every ouch of his will power and then some to break free of their compelling, seductive and thoroughly femininely couched magnetism. Then, just as he was, on a peripheral level of his awareness, becoming cognizant of massive strands of hair - his hair - that were, at the time, miraculously billowing out of his scalp, only to cascade down over the nap of his aristocratic re-sculptured neck, and from there, over those luscious new shoulders of his and free fall, veil like, down the center run of that scrumptious and alluring newly restructured back of his, Paul looked to his hands and the startling transformation that they were even then undergoing. From meaty, calloused and scared ham hocks to gracefully dextrous, long nailed and fetchingly manicured, his hands became undeniable those of a woman, a young, attractive, twenty something woman. "Holy shit!", Paul, who was completely taken aback with his new, and ultra feminized physiognomy, incredulously exclaimed. "Would you just look at me! "I'm beautiful! Balls to the walls - beautiful!" Then, upon the realization that the application of the term 'beautiful' had been nothing more than a gross understatement, Paul, in a voice that was both delicate in its' timbre and velvety sexy in its' intonations, corrected his herified self. "No! Beautiful ain't going to cut it!" "If I must say so myself... I'm gorgeous! "Simply gorgeous... "Shit!", Paul, realizing that he had come within a hair's breath of committing a grievous faux pas that could, if not attend to immediately, have serious consequences, took the time out to mark his heel shod stint as the embodiment of a femme fatale by rotating the bezel of his divers watch to indicate the closet minute to the culmination of his full transsexualization. "Wow! Now that's something!", Paul marveled. "My watch... much like my underwear... has undergone its' own special brand of feminization! "I mean... it's still a divers watch! But now it's a ladies divers watch! Y'know... rather than a man's! "I mean... damn if it's not an almost exact duplicate of Janice's! "Now that's rather nifty..." Then, upon the realization that his watch's transmutation, though interesting, was far less so than that of his own, Paul, well aware that if he stuck to his guns, he had precious little time to fully evaluate his new and ultra feminized physique, turned back to the mirror and the image that was so tantalizing resplendent upon its' silverized surface. "This is fantastic! Simply fantastic! "These heels! They've saddled me with the body of a temptress and a face that borders on the angelic! "Bo Derek! Cindy Crawford! Pamalla Sue! Step aside! There's a new dick teaser in town! And,... just so you'll know... that new, stacked and packed dicker teaser is none other then little old, bodaciously retrofitted me!" Though he dearly would have liked to enhance his perspective by moving a smidgen or two closer to the mirror, Paul prudently bided his time by remaining seated; knowing, with a shear and utter certainty, that he - as a newly ensconced she - wasn't anywhere near ready to tackle the arduous task of trying to navigate about his motel room in a pair of persnickety treacherous, stiletto thin, high heeled opera pumps, no matter how magical those persnickety treacherous, stiletto thin, high heeled opera pumps might well have been. Time check. Two minutes. Paul had three minutes to go before he reached down and removed the heels. "Shit!", a very horny and therefore, sexually frustrated Paul Meadows complained. "The one thing I'd like to do right now is to grope the living shit out of these new sexual accouterments of mine and - Damn it all to hell and back! - it's the one friggin' thing I can't do... y'know, for fear of getting caught up in the act of playing a game of titty tweak and grab ass with this new and thoroughly bodacious bod of a body of mine... "I mean... were I not extremely careful... were I to give in to this raging... what I still tend to believe is a very manly libido driven horniness of mine... y'know, and start finger-fucking myself... I could easily loose track of time... and as a result of that, I could remain a female for a lot longer than I had originally planned... "So... since I don't want to do that... y'know, until I find out whether or not I'm going to revert to being a man again... y'know, once I remove these dick teaser specials I'm wearing... I guess I'm going to have to forego that aspect of my experimentation for the time being. "Maybe later... after I after I get back from going out and grabbing something for dinner, we'll have another go-around with these heels and then - I promise! - you can experiment till your heart's content..." Second time check. Three and a half minutes had passed. A very feminized Paul Meadows had a minute and a half still to go. Curious as to how that new vagina of his looked, Paul, in a very unlady like fashion, took his hands and with an admonishment to himself to, "Watch it, pal! Don't go taking liberties with yourself that you shouldn't ought take for the right here and now!", placed them on the inside runs of their respective thighs and splayed his legs wide apart. "Now would you look at that! "Paul... me boy-o!", he said, trying, but failing miserable, to adopt an Irish accident. "Guess what! You've got a vagina! A cute, cuddly, little pussy all for your very own! "And later..." he continue in a slightly sarcastic tone of voice, "...if you're a good little boy and eat all your veggies... maybe I'll let you dicker around with it..." Paranoia was setting in, demanding another time check. Four minutes. Paul had but one minute to go. "You know something... as fabulous as you look as brunette, it's a damn shame that these spiked heels didn't go whole hog and turn you into a friggin' blonde bombshell... y'know, because if there's one thing that always been a perennial favorite of your's, it's blonde bombshells... "I mean... you're always fantasizing about 'em!" Then, having just said that, Paul became aware that something was happening to those new, full bodied tresses of his. Incredulous as it sounds, they were lightening, going from a rich and glossy chestnut hue to a radiant, golden glory, dovetailing nicely to coloration of the women who provocatively frolicked within his sexually couched, sexually concocted day dreams. "This is incredible! Absolutely incredible! I'm becoming a blonde! These heels are actually turning me into a friggin' blonde bombshell to end all blonde bombshells! One that by far surpasses anything I ever - in my whole entire life - fantasied about! Glancing at his watch, Paul exclaimed, "Shit! Damn near six minutes have come and gone! I've had these heels on for almost a whole friggin' minute longer than I had planned to! "Better attend to getting them off of myself right away! Y'know, before something else crops up to distracted me!" And he did just that. In the next moment or so, Paul had those bad boys off of his herified self and up on the counter. Then, postulating that he had, at the very lest, a full six minutes before he began to revert back to his former manly self, if, that is - Perish the thought! - he did revert back to his formerly manly self, Paul, a very horny, a very narcissistic Paul Meadows, rose and taking a half a step towards the mirror, began to fondle and caress the livin' shit out of his herified self. Though well appraised that a woman's body tended to be a lot more sexually sensitive than a man's, Paul was still unprepared for just how sexually sensitive that new, femininely retrofitted body of his was. His titties, and the enlarged areolas surrounding them had been rendered supersensitive, so much so that a simple, self-induced, swirling, thumb caress triggered a torrent of sexual shivers, which in turn, up his horniness quotient considerably. Then, finding himself at a totally loss to fight the sensual and seductive enticements that that new bod of body afforded him, Paul, embroiled as he was in his narcissistic pursuit, upped the ante considerably, as he freed up one of his hands and, using the delicately long fingernails of it to trace the path, began to run it slowly, teasingly, up along the inner run of his thigh. A moan, a deep throated and undeniable feminine moan, a moan which clearly indicated the fact that Paul, as the physical female he had become, was beginning to experience the excruciating pleasures that had the accumulative effect of engendering the joyous rush of pre-orgasmic ecstasy, escaped his lust-moistened and sensually quivering lips. More moans followed, garnished well with