Tales Of An Amateur Gynecologist 2: Best Of Both Worlds free porn video

Several years ago I wrote the story "Heels" which told the tale of a man and a magical pair of stiletto heel pumps which allowed the gentleman the ability to change into a fully functional female on a purely elective, part-time bases. Well, as fate would have it, another pair of those rather unique high heels has come into the possession of yet another young man. In a serialized, five part Tales of an Amateur Gynecologist (TAG), I have tried to explore how an avowed heterosexual male might use such heels to his advantage. Tales of an Amateur Gynecologist 2: BEST OF BOTH WORLDS By Deane Christopher [email protected] Edited by Constance Grant Copyright 2000 As expected, Joe awoke that Saturday to find his gray tabby, Tom, curled up in between his lower legs. Jeri, his precocious and unpredictable tortoiseshell, lay, as was her wont, nestled up against his midsection. "Sorry, guys! Hate to do this to you, but your dad's got to get up!" Though he wished he could postpone the inevitable, Joe, aware that Beth Hammerman was expecting a call from his feminine alter ego, got out of bed and headed straight way to the bathroom. There, after brushing his teeth, he jumped in the shower, hoping that it's refreshing waters would help invigorate him. Toweling himself off, Joe pondered over the matter of whether or not he should shave. Aware of the fact that he was planning on spending the day as a physically functioning member of the opposite sex, Joe came to the conclusion that he might as well just forego the hassle of shaving. Returning to the A-frame's loft bedroom, Joe gathered up the articles of clothing that he had discarded upon going to bed in the wee hours of the morning. Knowing that those magical, transsexualizing pumps of his would, in the do course of things, make them as fresh as if they had just be laundered, Joe, instead of going through the rigmarole of procuring a new set of underwear, donned the set he worn the day before. Rousting a somewhat perturbed Jeri from where she had just parked herself atop his jeans, the very same jeans, which had been, but a few short hours before, a slinky pair of leg flattering lycra-spandex leggings, Joe picked them up and proceeded to slip them on. Holding off on his stone washed denim shirt for the moment, Joe nonchalantly sat on the bed and, with a few grunts and groans escaping his lips, managed what was for that moment in time for him, the arduous the task of pulling on those previously worn socks of his. Standing and using the toe of his right foot, Joe skillful finagled those daintily sized high heels of his into an upright position, where upon he, with the practiced ease that comes with time, stepped into first the left one and then the right one. Pumps that should have only accommodated the feet of an extremely petite woman's perceptible grew larger as those manly toes of Joe's passed within the magical confines of their stylish U-throats. Likewise, Joe's average sized masculine looking feet underwent an almost instantaneous downsizing and startling reapportionment, becoming, within half a heartbeat, the high arching instep of an average sized female's. Had Joe waited but a couple more seconds, as he had done on numerous occasions in the past, he could have withdrawn one or the other of his newly feminized feet, only to find that its' toenails had become magically coated with a very flattering, understated shade of nail gloss. Then, with the knowledge that his socks were already well on their way to becoming some sort of nylon hosiery, Joe took a moment to jot down the approximate time he had donned the heels. Earlier on, relying on the trial and error method, Joe had come to the realization that the heels not only turned him into the girl of his dreams while wearing them, but they sustained him in girl form for a like amount of time once he took them off. That's to say that if Joe wore the heels for an hour and then removed them, he would remain a female for another hour afterwards. Likewise, if he kept them on for full twenty-four hours, once he took them off, he would maintain his femininity for another twenty-four hour period. Borrowing and bastardizing the term residual nitrogen time, a term he had learned when taking a course to become a certified scuba diver, Joe classified his additional time spent as a crotch-creased member of the sugar and spice and everything nice club as residual girl time. Careful tracking and accurate documentation was the key to Joe's past success in avoiding embarrassing situations that might arise due to his rather unusual predilection to spending a good deal of his leisure time as a functional female. Though he had come awful close to slipping up on a few more occasions than he would like to admit, all things considered, Joe had a pretty good track record managing his allocated residual girl time. While it was true that his self-imposed femininity had caused him to be an hour or so late for work on several occasions, those occurrence were few and far between. Though Joe was no where near being what one might refer to as a neatness freak, he did try to keep the rustic A-frame that he had inherited from his parent's reasonable tidy. However, though it generally irritated the hell of him to do so, Joe had this pesky and persistent foible about liking a fresh made bed to crawl into whenever he or, given the prevailing circumstances, she went to bed each night. That being the case, Joe, upon pulling on that previous worn denim shirt of his, but leaving it unbuttoned for the moment, busied himself with the mundane and often irritating task of making the bed. Moving about that king- sized bed that he religiously reserved for use by his feminine alter ego, Joe, not wishing to catch a glimpse of the bizarre absurdity of his rapidly herifying physique in one of the room's several mirrors, kept his eyes averted. Having just fluffed the first of the bed's two pillows, Joe became keenly aware that he had reached the point in his ongoing transsexualization where his primary sexual equipment was on the verge of once again being damn near instantaneously retrofitted into that of a woman's. Hugging the pillow for all it was worth, Joe stopped what he was doing in order to savor the erotic, sub- orgasmic rush that wantonly heralded the wondrous event of being fitted out with his very own little honey pot. Half tempted to say, 'The hell with it!' and shit-can her plans for the remainder of the morning; climb back into her nearly made bed and there, go for the gold, Jo, feeling like she had an obligation to return Beth Hammerman's call, allowed reason to prevail. Though it took every ounce of will power she could muster and then some, Jo managed, by the hair of that still very masculine cast chinny chin-chin of hers, to summon the wherewithal to ride roughshod over those newly imposed and damn near insatiable carnal cravings that relentlessly assaulted her. Though the urge to reach down and grope the living shit out of those revamped loins of hers never completely left her, a sexually frustrated Jo returned to the simple task at hand. Re- fluffing the pillow she had, but a moment before, been squeezing the hell out of, Jo positioned it carefully before moving around to the other side of the bed to repeat the process with the other satin pillowcase ensconced headrest. Round about the time Jo had finished with the chore of making the bed, she was well aware of the fact that her hips had splayed, her tummy had flattened and her waist had constricted. In other words, at that precise moment in time, Jo was already in possession of roughly two thirds of the fetching, man-troubling, hourglass figure that the heels were incrementally bestowing upon her Early on, Jo had come to realize that the high heels possessed a rather nifty ability that allowed her to instantaneously transform any article of clothing that she was wearing into any other article of clothing that she might wished to be wearing. All she had to do to accomplish this rather remarkable feat was to close her eyes and formulate a mental picture of herself dressed the way she wished to be dressed. Then, upon opening those ever so enchanting baby blues of hers, Jo would find herself attired in an exact duplicate of the apparel that she mentally designed for herself. That morning, in effort on her part to keep things casual, Jo formulated a mental image of herself decked out in a pair of ever so flattering, skintight, wear-faded blue jeans; the heels and a smartly tailored, shirt-styled, shimmering pink satin blouse. Deciding it was high time for her to head down to the kitchen and eat some breakfast, Jo, having scanned the bedroom to make doubly sure everything was in order, made for the spiral staircase that granted access to the floor below. Starting her descent with a pair of pre-pubescent girlish nubbins, Jo reached the downstairs landing fitted out with an ample and nicely conical rack of truly outstanding chest melons, the like of which would no doubt make a whole bevy of other women extremely jealous of her. Halting her progress for a moment or two, Jo, cupping the underside of those nice new mammary glands of hers, jostle them into a better positioning within the sleek and dreamily sensual confines of the hot pink satin bra that her T-shirt had correspondingly transmogrified itself into. Though she could hazard a pretty good guess as to what she would find, Jo, curious as all get-out to see what the heels had made of those baggy boxer shots of hers, sneaked a peek. She had guessed right. Those frumpy boxer shorts of hers had become a sinfully skimpy pair of French-cut, bra matching, pink satin bikini briefs. Halfway along the A-frame's central hallway en route to the rear of the house and the kitchen, a contrary strand of strawberry blonde hair fell across her face and in so doing, apprised Jo of the fact that her transsexualization into a vibrant and gorgeous young woman was nearing completion. Looking to those callused and work ravaged manly mitts of hers, Jo watched with rapt attention as the last vestige of her masculinity was expunged. Fingers that had been but a moment before the weathered, gnarled, and big knuckled stubby stumps of a man who was not afraid to get his hands dirty doing manual labor, had become the long, lovely and expertly manicured fingers of a charming and fashionable young woman. A short time later, having eaten a breakfast consisting of juice, a bowl of cereal, two pieces of toast and a cup of decaf, Jo, though she was somewhat reluctant to do so, figured that she better call Beth. Topping off her cup of decaf, Jo, mentally ran over the strategy she would employ while on the phone with the very nice young lady that she - as a he - had made love to the night before. Making sure she was using the phone line she used only when operating as a female, Jo took a deep soothing breath so as to re-enforce her resolve and then and only then, dialed Beth Hammerman's number. Before the phone completed a second ring, a breathlessly expectant Beth answered, "Hello!" If the conversation was going to go the way Jo wanted it to go, she knew she had to establish control right from the get-go! "Beth! It's me! Jo! Then, in a calculated effort on her part to keep Beth from trumping in and wresting control from her, Jo charge ahead, "Look! I know you want to tell me all about your date last night! And, I assume from the message you left on my answering machine that you had a really good time! And, I assure you that I want to hear all the gory details, but I'm sad to say that I've got some errands to run this morning! So, if it's all right with you, how about the two of us meet somewhere for lunch and maybe some window shopping afterwards? You know, so you can tell me all about what went on last night!" It was clear to Jo that Beth was busting a gut to tell her all about her date, so much so that Jo had to repeatedly remind Beth that she was already running late and therefore, didn't have time to chit-chat no matter how much she really wanted to. Assuming the role of a tender hearted, but nonetheless relentless taskmaster, Jo tactfully managed to get Beth to agree to meet her at the Brentwood Mall's food court around eleven thirty that morning. With a, "Bye now! See you at the food court around eleven thirty!" Jo terminated the call and hung up the phone With the call to Beth behind her, a somewhat relieved Jo remained at the kitchen table long enough to polished off her second cup of coffee. Then, aware that she had a few hours to kill before heading down to the mall, she decided to attend to a few things around the house that needed attended to. Putting in a load of wash, she returned to the mudroom off the kitchen and there, made quick work of changing out the litter in Tom and Jeri's litter-box. Next, informing herself that she really needed to do so more often, Jo got the vacuum out of the hall closet and gave the whole downstairs a cursory once over with it. Then, upon realizing that it was getting late, triggering the self-targeted admonishment that she had best get her ass in gear and get a move on it, Jo availed herself of full length mirror that was mounted on the inside surface of the downstairs' bathroom's hallway door. Egotism aside, Jo, viewing herself through the filter of that extremely healthy an oft times lecherous leaning male libido of hers, knew that she earned at the barest minimum, a solid rating of fifteen on a scale of one to ten. That's to say that Joe was not just cute or attractive or even pretty. She was all of those and more. She was gorgeous. Drop dead; balls to the walls gorgeous. Ever thankful of the fact that the heels' inherent magical wherewithal negated her having to fuss with perfume, make-up, jewelry and all that infuriating nonsense that normal women have to contend with on a day in day out bases, Jo beamed a knowingly impish smile at herself. Wishing to make a slight adjustment, Jo closed her eyes and formed a mental picture of herself with that lovely blonde hair of hers done up in a stylish and very flattering French Braid. Then, adhering to the admonition that an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure, Jo took a step that was clearly calculated to help her fiend of any untoward advances that the egotistical, God's gift to women types might lavish on her while she was out in public. Closing her eyes for a second time, Jo pictured a somewhat ostentatious white gold, diamond crested engagement ring encircling the ring finger of her left hand. Informing her cats that they best behave themselves while she was out, Jo donned a lightweight leather jacket that quickly began to adjust itself to better fit her femininely form. She then picked up the small black leather purse that her wallet had transmogrified into and headed for the detached garage and the utilitarian Saturn sedan that had formerly belonged to her mother. *** As Jo inserted the key in the ignition, she once again wished that the heels possessed the magical wherewithal to affect her mom's car in very much the same way they did her apparel. While the Saturn had been a reliable vehicle, not to mention a free one, Jo would have preferred something sportier, something a little snazzier, something with a ragtop and two seats. Something along the lines of that MGB that she had owned back when she first came into possession of the heels. But, since beggars couldn't be choosers, her mother's Saturn would have to suffice until Jo could come up with the money to purchase a replacement for it. Flipping on the radio, Jo heard the opening strains of the song 'Three Times a Lady', a song she had long ago mentally linked to the heels themselves. And, that got her to thinking about how she had come into possessions of those stiletto-heeled pumps of hers in the first place. Long before Joe's mother got her own car and drivers license she loved to spend her Saturday mornings going to yard sales and flea markets. However, putting it mildly, Joe's dad didn't. Truth be told: Joe's father hated going yardsaling with a passion. So, in an effort to give his dad a break, once a month Joe, playing the part of the dutiful son, would relieve his father from obligatory drudgery of having to chauffeur his mom and her one sister around. So anyhow, one Saturday morning some ten years prior, in mid to late September, after an hour or so of unproductive yardsaling, Joe, on his mother's urging, drove her and his Aunt Clara over to a huge, combination tent and building housed flea market. Having agreed on a prearranged time to meet back at the car, Joe, whose interest varied from that of the two women, parted company with his mother and her elder sister and took off to browse around the place on his own An hour later as he was in the process of putting a real hurting on a hot dog he had just purchased, Joe passed out from under one of the huge open sided tents only to enter another across the way. There, as he meandered down the tent's rather congested central aisle, out of the corner of his eye, Joe caught sight of the high-heeled pumps. They were sitting upright amid what looked to him to be a whole hodgepodge of unrelated whatnots and assorted doodads, the sort of random junk that his Aunt Clara sarcastically referred to as OPTs (Other People's Treasures). Joe had always thought that the classic, pointy-toed high heel pump was the epitome in the design of what one might think of as fashionable women's footwear. Being an aficionado of the tantalizingly sculptured female leg, he felt that the stiletto heel pump lent the otherwise unattractive appendage of the female foot a sense of elegance and extremely alluring sensual grace. However, as much as he like seeing women in heels, Joe was not so enamored with the shoes themselves to be considers as having even a mild level foot fetish. Heels, much like clothing, makeup, perfume and jewelry, were mere add-ons, employed to enhance, embellish and package the final overall product and make it as appealing and presentable as possible. Why Joe was drawn to the heels like he was that auspicious Saturday still mystified and, to a lesser extent, intrigued the hell out of him. Oddly enough, to Joe's way thinking, the extremely obese and slovenly dressed woman whose table the pumps resided upon seemed as perplexed by their presence among the various articles she had up for sale as he did. However, though the woman appeared to have been momentarily taken aback by the presence of the heels, she was nevertheless keenly aware that Joe presented her with yet another opportunity to make a quick sale. As had happened so many times before, someone walking by the overly large woman's table had most likely seen something that tickled their fancy and, more than likely, had set the pumps down in order to further examine whatever it was that had caught their eye in the first place. Then, without thinking, they had up and moved on, forgetting to reclaim the heels they had probably purchased earlier in the day as they did so. Applying the finders keepers losers weepers clause that governs acquisition and procurement of saleable items, the obese opportunist, with a blatant disregard for the fact that the heels weren't really hers to sell, was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The glint in Joe's eyes had marked him as a prospective buyer and the woman, in an effort to make a fast buck or two, was not about to let him get by her without at least an attempt at making a sale. "Tell you what, young fellow!" she hoarsely bellowed in an effort to be heard over the song 'Three Times A Lady' that was obnoxiously blaring out one of the flea market's tinny sounding PA speakers that was mounted on the pole directly behind her. "Five dollars and they're yours!" Though Joe hated bartering and had not given any thought to purchasing the heels, for some reason or another he hastily countered, "Tell you what! Make it two and you've got a deal!" Fearing that the real owner would return and reclaim them at any moment, the woman, acting as if she were doing Joe a big favor, replied, "Alright, sweetie! Here! Let me put them in a plastic bag for you..." A moment later, as a thoroughly bewildered and irately bamboozled Joe Grant began to once again make his way down the tent's table bracketed concourse, he began to mental chastise himself. 'Just what in the hell were you thinking? I mean, whatever possessed you to buy these shoes in the first place? You know, because for one thing: they're not in style now! And, for another, they're really, really small! You know, so it's a cinch that you're never going to be able to give them to anybody who will ever be able to wear them! You know, so you aren't going to be able to use them as a Christmas gift or a birthday present...' 'Basically - Asshole! - what you did was: you just went and wasted two dollars!' Joe internally fumed, feeling as foolish as all get-out! 'And, do you know what you ought to do with these dick teaser specials you just went and bought? You ought to just give them the old heave-ho and toss 'em in that trashcan over there!' And, Joe came within a hair's breath of doing just that. Striding purposely over to one of the red painted fifty-five gallon drum that served as waste receptacles at the flea market, Joe was on the verge of dropping the shopping bag containing the heels into its' crud encrusted maw when, all of a sudden, he thought better of it. Though the 'why' and the 'wherefore' eluded him, for some elusive reason that he could not even begin to fathom or comprehend, Joe could not muster the necessary wherewithal to part company with the heels. As unable to explain the impetus behind why he had purchased the heels in the first place, Joe found that he could not provide a rational explanation as to why he wished to hold on to them. All he knew was that he was not about to throw them away, half suspecting that when push came to shove, he wouldn't want to give them away either. The heels were his now! And, though he harbored no illusions about ever wearing them himself, given the fact that they were one: two small, and two: women's shoes, Joe was not about to part with them. Though it would take him quite awhile to grasp and categorize the extraordinary emotional surge that had influenced his impulsive decision to first purchase and then, retain possession of them, Joe eventually became aware of the fact the Biblical term covet clearly delineated his feelings surrounding the pumps. All of a sudden, Joe, who was starting to feel like some perverted fiendish ghoul, realized that if he showed up at the car with bag in hand, his mother would want to know what he had bought. And, that would only lead to more questions. Questions that Joe could no more answer than get pregnant and have a baby. Realizing that he had a problem on his hands, Joe, having seen the very item that would solve that problem a few tents back, hurriedly began to retrace his steps. Luck was with him. The moderately large molded plastic toolbox he had eyed up earlier had not been sold as yet. Without haggling, Joe coughed up the ten dollars asking price and the case was his. Then, in an afterthought, Joe also purchased a combination lock from the very same guy he had bought the toolbox from. Lifting out the removable tray, Joe carefully placed the bag containing the heels inside the toolbox. Replacing the tray to its' nifty molded perch inside the upper rim of the box, Joe pooped the lock out of its' blister pack and, having tucked the torn-off piece of cardboard packaging that display the lock's combination in his wallet, Joe secure the toolbox with it. Oddly enough, the heels remained locked away and all but forgotten in that toolbox for the next four months. It was only when Joe moved out of his parents' house and into his own apartment across town that he was reminded of his impulsive and thoroughly illogical purchasing of them. Several weeks after moving into his own place, while he was still attending to the irksome chore of unpacking his belongings, Joe got around to opening the toolbox. Taking a minute to examine the heels, Joe, having once again castigated himself for having purchased them in the first place, nonchalantly placed them on top of his chest of drawers where they would sit, functioning as little more than stiletto heeled dust collectors for another month and a half. Still damp from an unusually early evening shower, a bathrobe attired Joe Grant returned to his bedroom only to hear the song 'Three Times A Lady' pleasantly wafting from the clock radio that sat unobtrusively on the nightstand. Why, he didn't know, but for some reason or another, that song made him think about the heels. Walking over to his chest of drawers, he picked one up and began to curiously examine it as he moved to the bed, turned about and promptly sat down upon it. Having used his towel to remove most, but far from all of the dust that had accumulated, Joe began to turn the shoe this-a-way and then, that-a-way, endeavoring to examine the pump from every conceivable angle. Though Joe knew he had no way to determine whether he was making the correct assumption or not, he tended to believe that the heels were handmade and that the shoemaker, if indeed there had been one, was a top-notch artisan. Interestingly enough, lending support to Joe's supposition, the heels bore no sign of a manufacturer's logo or, for that matter, any discernable marking that would serve to indicate what size they were. There was one thing that was obvious. The heels were small, sized to fit the feet of a very petite woman. Just for kicks and giggles, Joe, hoisted his left leg and set the outside run of its' left ankle on top of and slightly behind the crest of his right knee. He then positioned the high heel he had been so intently examining up alongside of his average sized manly foot in order to gauge just how really small the heels were. Needless to say, his foot looked huge next to the daintily sized pump. Next, Joe moved the U-throat of the shoe forward, placing it slightly in front and a little below those stubby and gnarled toes of his, so as to provide himself with a better perspective on just how narrow there were. So what does Joe do next? He does exactly what any red-blooded American male, operating in the privacy his own bedroom, would do in a similar situation. Knowing that the heel would never even come close to fitting that manly gunboat of his, Joe nevertheless playfully attempts to try the shoe on. Using his big toe as more or less a guidepost, Joe, fully aware that he is engaging in what will no doubt prove to be a fruitless and foolish endeavor, gingerly maneuvered the pump's U- throat about it. Thinking that he will meet with daunting resistance with each passing second, Joe is rendered awestruck and then, flabbergasted as the sleek stiletto heeled pump slips easily and effortlessly onto his lower appendage. "What the..." Joe, in a knee-jerk reaction, exclaimed aloud. Joe could not believe what had just happened. A shoe that shouldn't have fit - did. And, shocking the shit out of him even more so, he realized that the pump fit comfortably. While being snug, it didn't crimp his toes or feel in anyway uncomfortable or constrictive. It was as if the heel had been handcrafted to fit his foot and his foot alone. No. That was not it at all. Joe was quick to realize that it was not the pump alone that had undergone some sort of instantaneous up sizing in order to accept the intrusion his foot. Correspondingly, his left foot appeared to have undergone a radical downsizing in order to accept the pump. While the high heel appeared to be perceptibly larger then he remember it being, a stare and compare with his unshod right foot informed a alarmingly baffled and increasingly bewildered Joe Grant that his left foot was not just a little bit smaller than his right one. It was in fact, a whole hell of a lot smaller. And, not only was it smaller, it was nowhere near as manly looking as its' unshod mate. Truth be told, though Joe was as yet unready to acknowledge the fact, what was unarguable a woman's shoe, fetchingly adorned want was unquestionable a woman's foot. And, not only had his foot become that of a female's, but so too his ankle and the shin portion of his lower leg. Incredulously, Joe looked on in horror as the heel-induced femininity began to claim the lower extent of his left leg, rendering it hairless and provocatively smooth and creamy as it did so. Then, just when his calf muscle was about halfway through the male libido affronting process of being progressively emasculated and thusly feminized, Joe frantically reached down and plucked the heel from off his foot. Though it took an extremely tense moment or two for Joe to notice any perceivable return to its' formerly manly stature, relief soon flooded over him as he began to take note of the fact that his left leg was once again becoming not only masculine but, hirsute as well. Needless to say, his first experience with the heels was a very, very unnerving and a thoroughly unsettling one. However, after taking a good fifteen minutes to mull over what just had occurred, Joe, thoroughly intrigued with the myriad of wildly imagined possibilities, felt himself ready for a return engagement with the pumps. Opting to see if the other pump would produce the same sort of results that its' mate had, Joe placed it upright on the floor before him and adroitly managed to insert his right foot into it. Using the once again pettily sized left pump as a gauge, Joe confirmed the fact that the heel ensconcing his right foot had in fact becoming perceptible larger. In like fashion, though he already knew this to be the case, another stare and compare informed him that he had not been hallucinating before, due to the fact that his stiletto heeled right foot was indeed a good deal smaller and unquestionable daintier than his unshod left foot was. Still uncertain as to how he really felt about what was happening to him, Joe, intrigued as he was, waited until the heel induced feminization process had laid claim to his right knee before he once again reached down and removed the pump. Repeated experiments followed all throughout the evening in which Joe donned first one, and then the other, and then both of the transsexualizing heels. However, even though he incrementally allowed the process to work steadily up his lower appendages, Joe was careful to never let it reach a point where it lay claim to his loins. Though he came within an ominous and fretfully acute RCH (red cunt hair) of saying: "The hell with it!" and allowing the process to continue unabated, Joe allowed reason to prevail. Before progressing any further along with his experiments, he knew he needed some time to think over the practicality of his doing so. There were a whole shitload of questions he needed to ask himself, and a lot of jumbled emotions that had to be sorted through before he took the next step and found out just how much of a female those heels of his would end up turning him into. Apprehension and expectation made for a fretful night of sleep for our young Mr. Joseph Grant. He tossed and turned from the time he went to bed till the time got up the next morning, due to the fact that he was unable to rid himself of the damn near omnipresent thoughts of how the heels had affected his anatomy. Likewise, his day at work was almost a total washout. Having already pretty much come to the conclusion that, regardless of the risk he was incurring, he would take his experiments with the pumps to the next logical level that evening, Joe had a hell of a hard time concentrating on matters pertaining to work. Over and over and over again, Joe kept asking himself the very same questions. 'Will the heels really turn my you-know-what into a vagina? And, if they do, will I like having one? Will I end up with breast? If so, will they be little ones? Or, will they be great big ones? Or, what... 'And, what if I let them do whatever they're going to do? Will they end up turning me all the way into a woman? I mean, will I think and act like a woman? And, if they do, will I all of a sudden start finding that men, rather then women, are my cup of tea? Or, will I just look like a woman? You know, physically... 'And, let's say they do turn me into a woman, I wonder just what kind of woman I'll end up becoming! I mean, given how terrific these legs of mine looked last night, it's a fairly safe bet that I might end up a pretty one! Maybe, if I'm real lucky, even a beautiful one... 'But, that begs the question: do I really want to be a woman?' The answer to that question was a big, fat and emphatic - no! Joe liked being a man. However, though he did, given the opportunity to find out what it was like to be a woman, on purely elective, part time bases, Joe, being totally honest with himself, had to admit that it was certainly an intriguing notion that had a whole raft of positive possibilities. But, that lead directly to the next series of questions. 'If the heels do in fact change me into a woman, will I be able to change back by merely taking them off? And, what in the hell happens if I don't turn back into a man again? I mean, am I really prepared to live out the rest of my life as a woman if such should happen?' Once again, the answer to that question was a big, fat, emphatically resounding - no! There was no way Joe could see himself living the day-to-day life of a female. He liked being a man far too much to want to be a woman on a full time bases. However, if the heels worked the way Joe hoped and prayed they would, allowing him to transform himself into a female on a purely elective, part bases, he could have the best of both worlds. Through their judicious use, Joe knew that they might afforded him the unique opportunity to get first hand knowledge of how the other half lived, knowledge he could then employ to its fullest advantage. In other words, if the heels functioned like he kind of thought they might, Joe could become an inside trader in the grand Game of Love. And, that realization begged the question: 'Was it worth the risk?' Though Joe waffled throughout the day, when push came to shove, he was more inclined to think that it was worth the risk, rather than not. Stopping at a fast food for a quick bite to eat on the way, Joe returned to his apartment and there, made a beeline for the bedroom. Stripping off his clothes, he put on his trusty terrycloth bathrobe. Plucking the heels from off his chest of drawers, he then moved to the bed and plopped his ass down upon it. Taking a deep breath to reinforce his resolve and with the fervent hope that he was not about to embark on a one way trip into the mysterious realms of womanhood, starting with his left foot and moving directly on to his right foot, Joe donned the heels. Several minutes later, with serious doubts as to whether he was doing a wise thing or not, Joe, who was becoming as horny as all get-out regardless of the trepidation he was feeling, stilled himself for the anticipated change that was about to be enacted on his loins. Then, as Joe craned his neck over to get a bird's eye view of what was happening, within the encapsulated time span of something just shy of thirty seconds, his male genitalia fluidly and erotically reconstituted itself into that of a female's. And, as it did so, Jo's arms and legs prickled into a multitude of Goosebumps, as jolts of pure, unadulterated, sub- orgasmic pleasure sensually coursed and cavorted all throughout his physicality, threatening in a most compelling way to override his resolve to abort the process before he was completely female. Though she dearly wanted to reach down and grope the livin' shit out of herself and there by, begin a thorough exploration of that new, nifty and neatly tucked away sexual apparatus of hers, reason stilled Jo's hand. Though she was loathed to do so, round about the time that the upwardly flowing femininity had reached her navel, Jo reluctantly reached down and quickly plucked the heels from off her feet. Trouble was, the prior episode had left Jo feeling as horny as hell. So horny in fact that as Jo's manhood began to reassert itself, it clearly evidenced just how sexually torqued and turned on Joe was. Rushing to the bathroom and from there, into the shower stall, Joe, as he did on a regular on going bases, especially so when he was wallowing in a dating lull, took the matter in hand, as he sought release from the crass carnal need that had beset him. Fifteen minutes later, Joe was back in the bedroom for another go around with the heels. Oddly enough, as soon as he put the heels back on, his penis, as if anticipating what was to come, came to immediate attention. Then, without any need to jump in and lend a hand, on the cusp of being revamped into the elusive nub of a woman's clitoris, Joe manly member erupted, launching a hefty projectile-like wad of semen arching towards the ceiling. Having allowed the sexual re-structuring of her body to progress a little further up her torso then she had the previous time, Jo reached the stage where she was just beginning to feel her chest distend outwards. Though she was loathed to do so, having reached the benchmark she had set for herself, Jo once again prudently reached down and divested herself of the heels. Twenty minutes later, at the point where she sported an extremely promising pair of adolescent nubbins, Jo, once again removed the heels and so, triggered what she had come to think of as her elastic and ever so erotic return to maleness. Roughly Forty-five minutes later, a pair of rather ample, nicely conical and super-sensitive mammary glands became Jo's undoing. Though she had planned on once again pulling plug at that particular juncture, all those new erogenous zones of hers weren't about to allow Jo the necessary mental wherewithal that would allow her to ignore them a moment more. They yearned for attention and Jo found that she could no longer deny them their pleasure. Cravenly, with her left hand toying with the nipple and corresponding areola of her right breast and her right one, groping the liven' shit out of that newly installed pussy of hers, Jo became subjugated to those wanton needs of her manly entrenched libido Being a neophyte at the fine and ever so pleasurable art of female masturbation, Jo, unaware of the vast amounts of luxurious pleasure she was denying herself, threw caution to the wind as she began to none to gently rub and tweak herself into the self- aggrandizing, body-bucking sexual hissy-fit. All to soon, her self-targeted manipulations culminated, ushering in the madly careening and recklessly kaleidoscoping rush of multi-orgasmic ecstasy. With a voice that purred and reeked with a raw and eager sensuality, a voice that she was as yet unaware that she possessed. Jo, faintly extolled, "Holy shit! That was fantastic! Absolutely fantastic... "I mean, I knew women had it good! But, I never - Ever! - knew they had it that good! "I mean, that was wonderful! Absolutely wonderful... *** A few minutes later, a still quivering Jo reluctantly returned to the here and now, only to realize that, somewhere along the line, the heel induced transsexualization had run its' course and that every last vestige of her former manhood had been expunged. Physically, she was all woman! Her mental state was something that still had to be determined. Though she was clearly ensconced within a woman's body, she still perceived herself as the man she had been born to be. The question was: did she still think like a man?" The mirror mounted on the door of her bathroom's wall mounted medicine cabinet gave Jo her first indication that, mental speaking, she still retained a very manly attuned mind. And, if her mind was not still a man's mind, there was no getting around the fact that her libido was definitely that of a man's. One quick look was all it took for Jo to fall madly in love-lust with her new femininely re-vamped self. The heels, she was quick to realized, had turned her into a lesbian narcissist of the First Water. For there, reflected upon the mirror surface, was the brazen, blonde haired nymphomaniac that had been conceived, cast and then so loving nurtured in the sex crazed crucible of her own mind's eye. That's to say that Jo had been turned into the physical personification of her own wet dreams. Though she lacked the necessary sexual equipment, equipment that engorged massive amounts of blood to render itself hard and firm and thereby, ready willing and able to penetrate the female form, that new body of hers responded in the only manner available to it. That's to say those sexually upgraded titty-wittys of Jo's began to mimic the johnson arm she had once possessed, while her vagina, not to be left out of the equation, started in leaking love juices like a sieve. Unable to restrain herself, Jo once again began to play a frenzied and furious game of titty tweak and stink finger with herself. It was only later, as she lay brazenly spread eagled across her bed, dreamily languishing in the blissful recollecting of her second, self-engendered, multi-orgasmic episode, that Jo came to the startling realization that while she still wore a robe, the robe she wore was no longer made out of terrycloth. Though it sill was of a deep navy blue coloration, the robe that lay in random disarray about that ever so heavenly new body of hers was of a finally tailored shimmering and sensual satin nap. The heels, she gleefully summarized, had somehow affected her robe as well as her body. And, though she had yet to grasp the full implications of exactly what that meant to her, that knowledge would lead Jo to further experiments with the clothing business. And, those experiments would, within the next several days, lead Jo to the clear understanding that she could be wearing any article of clothing that she wished to be wearing when physical female. All that was required of Jo was for her to close those ever so compelling bedroom eyes of hers and carefully construct a mental image of herself decked out in the apparel she desired to be wearing and the heels would kick in with their magical wherewithal and - Whalla! - she would open her eyes to find herself thusly attired. That's to say that once Joe got the hang of how it worked, she could go from wearing a skimpy thong bikini to a glamorously flowing evening gown in the wink of an eye. All to soon Jo would realize that the permutations for self-target enticement and titillation were only limited by the scope of her own vivid and, at times, somewhat wrapped and perverted imagination. In rapid succession, she would find that she could go from being dressed as a French maid, to a high school cheerleader, to a Playboy Bunny, to a harem girl, to a stiletto heel shod prima ballerina, or whatever in the hell tickled her fancy at any given moment in time. But, that was all in her future. What concerned Jo then was now that she was a woman, would she ever again become a man she had been? Realizing that there was no better time to find out then right then and there, Jo, with a silent prayer to God to please let her be a man again, reached down and removed the heels. Jo waited a moment and nothing happened. She then waited another moment and then, when still nothing happened that would indicate that she was beginning the fluid transformation back into manhood, Jo panicked. She became unglued and then, on the heels of that, hysterical. She felt the urgent need to call someone - Anyone! - and ask them to help her. She toyed with the idea of getting dressed, climbing in her MGB and rushing helter- skelter to the nearest hospital's emergency room and there, imploring the doctors to do something to help her out of the ludicrous predicament she found herself embroiled within. Then, just when she was on the verge of calling her parents and informing them of the foolish thing she had done, Jo, even as she was reaching for the phone, noticed that her hands were once again the hands of a man. Giddily, feeling like the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders; Jo dashed into the bathroom. There, relief flooded over her as she beheld the visage of that old male kisser of hers, wearing the biggest shit-eating grin she had ever seen, moronically smiling back at her from the mirrored surface of the medicine cabinet's door. Two hours later, Joe, having given the matter a lot of thought, got up the gumption to don the heels again. This time though, fighting hard against the ever so persistent and pervasive urge to have at herself, Jo, once she felt as if the transsexualization process had run its course, jotted down the time. Waiting a full fifteen minutes, Jo once again made a notation of the time and then bent down and remove the heels. Fifteen minutes after that, Jo was relieved to find herself changing back into a man. Over the next couples of weeks, Joe, through repeated nightly experiments, discovered a wealth of information about the heels. First, just to make sure he was not going off half cocked and fooling himself in the process, Joe got the residual girl time business down pat. Then, especially so during his even expanding stints as a femme fatale, he began to get a handle on how he - as a she - could instantaneously access the heels' inherent magical wherewithal and so, re-attire herself to suit any capricious whim that arose to tickle that quirky fancy of hers. Then, quite by accident, Jo found that she was not locked into just being a blonde haired Caucasian. The heels gave her the leeway to assume the physical attributes of any other ethnic heritage she wished. Using the same exact technique that she employed with her clothing, Jo could become a woman of color. She could easily pass as a Hispanic, Asian, Pacific Islander, African, Middle Easterner or a composite mixture of any two or more should she wish to do so. She could be tall or short, dark skinned or light. Her hair could be long or short, straight or kinky. However, while the heels would allow her to assume a stature that was just a shade or two shy of the lower limits of being pleasing plump, they wouldn't comply with a mental directive which would have her appear either to fat or to skinny. The heels also saw to it that no matter what Jo opted for, she was going to be one beautiful and alluring woman. Joe also learned a hell of a lot about himself during that pivotal period in his life. For instance, within a few days, Joe felt reasonable certainty that those stiletto heeled pumps of his only affected only his physicality when they whipped a heavy handed dose of femininity on him. Mentally, he truly believed that he retained a very manly mindset even when his body was that of the opposite sex. The one thing that he was certain of was that his libido never wavered. It was manly attuned before he ever came into possession of the pumps and manly attuned it remained, regardless of his body's sexual affiliation. And, due to that, be he male or female, Joe remained sexually attracted to women. That meant that as a man that he was born to be, Joe was a confirmed heterosexual. However, be that as it may be, as a woman, who was still sexually attracted to other women, Jo had to consider herself an avowed lesbian and therefore, firmly entrenched in the homosexual camp. Trouble was, the way the game was rigged; the woman who pulled at Joe's heartstrings the most was none other than Jo herself. And, that made Joe a fill-fledged narcissist in damn near anybody's book. Joe also was also quick to acknowledge that while there was no way in hell that he would want to live out the rest of his life as a woman, being one or an purely elective, part-time bases could be a real eye opening and thoroughly enjoyable experience. Or, to put that the way Joe would have put it himself, as long as he could opt-out at any given moment in time, being a part time woman could be a real blast. For starters, Jo absolutely loved the sexual gratification she got out of being a girl. She loved that fact that as a female, she was multi-orgasmic. And for toppers, Jo loved the fact that as long as she didn't do something so stupid and foolish as to rub herself raw down there, stamina was the only thing that governed the number of repeat engagements she could lavish on herself. Ironically, though she never thought she would feel that way, once she got passed her initial reservations and revulsions about wearing women's clothing, Jo found that she was like that proverbial kid in a candy store that you're always hearing about ad nauseam. That's to say that, once Joe realized that the heels weren't about to garb her in anything other than the most sensually alluring and libido pleasing outfits imaginable, Jo, figuring in for a penny, in for a pound, more or less just went with the flow. In other words, Jo, more times than not, revealed in fact that the heels pretty much dictated that she dress like a dick teaser. Trouble was, the dick she teased most was none other than her own. Meaning: Joe, as a direct result of his spending a good deal of his leisure time as a sexual attired femme fatale, ended up, as a man, dealing with an inordinate amount of sexual tension and frustration. And, that in turn, had forced him into taking the matter in hand in order to address those rather perverted narcissistic fantasies he had begun to entertain that dealt with his male self getting it on with his female self. While it would take Jo almost six months to get up the gumption to venture out in public as an anatomically correct and snappily dressed member of the opposite sex, she eventually did. Using the baby step technique as described in the movie 'What About Bob', Joe started off by doing his weekly grocery shopping as Jo. Then, as her comfort zone increased and she became more confident that she could pass herself off as the vivacious young woman that she appeared to be, Jo began to expand her feminine forays out in the public arena. Initially, the inordinate amount of attention that a lot of men afforded her gave Jo the creeps. Though she - as a he - was guilty of committing the very same sort of offense that she found so unsettling, Jo, who found herself eyeing up other women the very same way men were eyeing her up, nevertheless still found it unsettling to be so lewdly ogled. Leering was one thing. Being leered at was something else altogether. Though she freely admitted to herself that she was operating under a double standard, given her rather peculiar circumstances, Jo felt that she had every right to adopt such an arbitrary double standard. The other thing that unnerved the hell out of Jo was when some egotistical, God's gift to women type tried to make a pass at her. And, as unnerved, as she was when such occurred, she absolutely hated it when some SOB laid one of those trite, ego affronting pick-up lines on her. Early on, Jo had come up with the engagement ring ploy. Just flashing it generally discouraged any follow-up attempts to come-on to her. And, for those that didn't get the message that she was already spoken for, Jo had six years of martial arts training from her misspent youth to rely on to, as she liked to say to herself, repel boarders. When a polite reply wouldn't do the trick, a swift knee in the groin usually worked wonders. Understandable, as Joe became increasingly acquainted with all those new and extremely nifty erogenous zones of hers, his proficiency and thusly, his value as a male lover increased exponentially. The girls he dated over the years, while not the least little bit happy about the shroud of secrecy he tended to enveloped his day to day life within, absolutely loved it when he administered to their carnal needs. Over and over and over again, the women he dated would unabashedly confirm the fact that Joe was not only the best lover that they had ever shared a bed with, but that he was just to darn good to be true. Joe knew how to satisfy women and satisfy women was just what he did. For about a six year stint or thereabouts, Joe, who had quickly gained a reputation as being phenomenal in bed, adopted the kid in the candy store attitude and so, dated a whole slew of attractive young women before toning down his endeavors and becoming somewhat more selective. Trouble was: as Joe honed and perfected his love making techniques into a rare and ever so well received art form, he increasingly began to become more and more envious of the women he preformed the selfless act of cunnilingus on. Though he - as a she - had enjoyed an occasional lesbian fling over he years operating as a female, Jo never had shared a bed with a female lover who was as gifted as she was when it came to clitoral stimulation techniques. And, that galled Joe to no end. While he truly believed that the heels provided him with the best of both worlds, the insight they afforded him had pretty much spoiled him. Though he had dated a fair number of women that he could have conceivable built a future with, none of them measured up to the woman he himself was. Basically, Joe was always pulling what he had come to term a 'Jerry Seinfeld' in which he would find fault with some aspect or another of each of the women he dated that would in turn, lead to the inevitable and hopefully amicable parting of the ways. There were several other obstacles that stood in the way of Joe being able to sustain a lasting relationship with a woman. Earlier on, though he was loathed to admit it even to himself, Joe had become hopelessly addicted to the sexual aspects of spending a fair amount of his leisure time as a functional female. While he would be agreeable to make a few concessions in that regard, Joe knew that there was no way in hell that he would ever go cold turkey and give up being a part girl completely. He enjoyed his stints as a femme fatale far too much to ever make such a promise, knowing that it would be a promise that he'd never - Ever! - be able to keep. Though an optimist would no doubt label him a pessimist, Joe was, if nothing else, a realist. And, because he was a realist, he knew that he had as much of a chance of finding a woman that would put up with him spending several hours a week as a women himself as did a snowball surviving even a minute's sojourn in hell. By the same token, Joe was well aware of the fact that a long-term relationship with a lesbian wouldn't work out for him either. As much as he - as a she - loved being the recipient of a proper tongue lashing and having that nifty little pussy of his being enthusiastically and energetically eaten out, Joe enjoyed sex as a man far too much to ever give up that aspect of his life as well. That left him with only one option. If Joe was going to find the happiness he was searching for, he had to find himself a bisexual woman to form a long-term relationship with. Though he had never really confirmed the fact, he tended to believe that he had dated a few women who were in fact bisexual. Several times he believed he had done so as a male and once, as a female. Trouble was: none of women he suspected as being bisexual came even close to fulfilling the other criteria he was looking for in a perspective wife. Maybe, though he had his doubts, Beth Hammerman would prove to be the woman that would complete his life. Four years earlier, Joe, aware that what he really wanted out of life was to find himself a wife, settle down and start raising a family, grew weary of the kid in a candy store routine of endless bed-hopping. Opting out of the bar scene, Joe decided what he really needed to do was to drastically change his modus operandi when it came to hooking up with women to date. Taking a page out of an old friend of his' book, Joe, under the guise of his feminine alter ego, began to get involved in a whole bunch of social activities For instances, even though he had been a certified scuba diver since his junior year in high school, Jo, hoping that she wouldn't be the only girl enrolled in the class, signed up for a basic certification class over at the junior college. Luckily for Jo, she was not the only girl taking the course. There were two other women beside herself in the course. Both were single. Both were young. And, both were pretty in their own rights. Jo, taking it upon herself to make the first ovation of friendship, while getting dressed after what had been a grueling pool session, casually made the suggestion that it might be nice for the three of them go grab a late night bite to eat at a near by dinner. Two weeks later, Jo had set Joe up with a blind date with one of her classmates. Even though the relationship with the delightful young lady lasted only five months, Joe realized right off that he had hit upon the perfect ploy. Employing his feminine alter ego as the go between, he could function as an empathetic confidant and there by, gain insider information, which he then could use to his advantage in planning his next move. Granted, Joe sometimes felt like a real cad doing something of that sort. But, given the limited field in which he operated, Joe pretty much rationalized that unless and until he came up with a better way of screening for prospective bisexual girlfriends, he would continue to have his feminine alter ego beat the bushes for him. As time went on, Joe began to refine his selection criteria. Basically, what he was on the lookout for was the touchy feelie kind of woman that had a marked tendency to repeatedly invade another woman's personal comfort zone. While it was true that such behavior didn't by any stretch of the imagination necessary indicate that a woman was a either a lesbian or a bisexual, in that she could very well be a card carrying heterosexual, Jo used such conduct as more or less a jumping off point. Then, if during subsequent conversations with a prospective dating candidate, Jo learned that the woman had been used, abused, and generally taken advantage of by one or more of the men in her past, she would adopt a very compassionate and conciliatory manner. Via the use of some empathetic hand holding, garnished well with some sympathetic hugging, Jo would endeavor to ingratiated herself with the prospect and there by, set the stage for the possibility of a future sexual tete-a-tete with the woman. While Joe seriously doubted that she would pan out in the end, he had to admit that, given the way that Beth had accorded herself when she and his feminine alter ego had been together, there was an outside chance that the shapely Ms. Hammerman harbored some latent bisexual tendencies. He also found that he not only liked Beth as a person, but that he was also sexually attracted to her. Plus, as he had come to find out the night before, she gave great head. And, great head, as he had come to realize, was nothing to scoff at. If she could only see her way clear to giving great clit as well, little Ms. Beth Hammerman might well prove out to be a keeper. *** In an effort to broaden the scope of her search for the unique sort of feminine companionship she so ardently longed for, Jo, hoping that she was not getting in over her head, had joined a health spa and enrolled in one of their biweekly scheduled early evening aerobics classes. Though she endeavored to portray herself as sort of a laid back extrovert in such situations, Beth beat her to the punch. No sooner had Jo entered the staging area where the aerobics class was to assemble, Beth, beaming a friendly welcoming smile, walked right over to Jo and, with a perky "Hi! How are you?" proceed on to introduced herself. Later, as the two of them sat in a booth at the spa's heath bar, Jo came to the realization that, even if Beth didn't pan out to be a bisexual, she was nevertheless a kindred spirit that could, and more than likely, would become a fast friend. She was cute, spunky and was alluringly packaged in a body that wouldn't quit. Jo, well aware of the fact that she could easily become quite smitten with Beth Hammerman, threw caution to the wind, as she energetically engaged in a very pleasant give and take conversation with the engaging young brunette sitting directly across the table from her. Though Jo, out of necessity, had become a pretty good judge of character over the years, Beth, due to the mixed signals the young woman seemed to be incessantly giving off, remained somewhat of an enigma to her. One minute Jo felt that she had Beth pretty much pegged. And next, back to curiously wondering about her sexuality. Beth was, like many women, an enthusiastic hugger and an energetic cheek kisser. She, as Jo quickly learned, was also a toucher, who seemed to be always laying her hand on Jo's forearm as sort of a physical preamble she gregariously employed to add emphasis to her saying something she deemed to be of either interest or importance. And, then there were those long, appraising, dreamy-eyed looks that Beth seemed to be always lavishing on Jo whenever she thought Jo was unaware of her doing so. Jo was no stranger to such appraising glances. Men were constantly undressing her with their lewd and lascivious eyes. But, to have a woman look at her in what Jo took to be a similar manner, while flattering, was still somewhat disconcerting, even though Jo was surreptitiously looking at Beth in pretty much the same lewd and lascivious way Beth was covertly gazing at her. Several times when they were together, Jo got the distinct impression that Beth was on verge of throwing caution to the wind and putting a move on her. However, on each occasion, round about the time Jo was reflexively bracing for what she ardently hope would follow, Beth, with a shiver and a shrug, quickly backed off, as she awkwardly endeavored to change whatever subject they had been taking about at the time. Then, adding to the enigma that was Beth Hammerman, Jo, eager to learn exactly what buttons to push, sat with rapt attention as Beth giddily told her all about her love-life and the various men she had dated over the years. Then, upon learning that Beth was new to the area and presently unattached, Jo, taking advantage of the opportunity afforded her, assumed the role of a concerned friend and amateur matchmaker. Informing Beth that she had this male friend of hers, who was likewise unattached at the moment, Jo continued on to suggest that this friend of hers might be just the kind of guy that Beth was looking to hook up with. Intrigued by Jo's suggestion to act as a go-between and set up some sort of meet, Beth asked all the obligatory questions and then, saying that she rarely if ever went out on a blind date, gave Jo the go-ahead to see if she could arrange one for her. Three nights later, Joe called Beth and, as she knew he would, proceeded on to ask her if she would l