Emergency Pill Part III
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Emergency Room free porn video
Emergency Room
by Debbie Cybill
Thanks to my wonderful wife Jeannine, I
spend most of my life en femme, except when
I am at work, when I have to wear pants.
Jeannine is all that any cross-dresser like
me could want in a wife. Apart from all her
other qualities, which any man would want in
a wife, Jeannine is not just supportive of
my xdressing, but positively encourages it,
even enthuses over it. I am simply not
allowed to dress as a man around Jeannine,
not that I would ever want to. Both our
families have seen me in dresses, and all
our close friends too.
Jeannine and I met in England when we were
both grad students. I come from Manchester,
in northern England, but Jeannine is French
Canadian, with a touch of Canadian Indian
blood in her ancestry, and we now live in
Quebec.
I have no trouble in going out dressed, even
in daylight; and I do much of the grocery
shopping. I pass quite well, and I don't
really care if anyone reads me. What if they
do? Only a group of children will make any
remark, though they can be tiresome. But I
still have two hang-ups, one minor and one
major. When we go shopping for clothes, I
still have butterflies about trying on
dresses in the stores, even with Jeannine
along as "protection"; and I have always
felt nervous about the possibility of being
involved in a car accident and being taken
to hospital while dressed.
Jeannine and I are both Pisces - a couple of
wet fish, if you like - so when we heard
that she must attend a business conference
in Manchester at the beginning of March, we
decided that we would make this a joint
birthday holiday and visit my brother in
Chorley, near Manchester, at the same time.
Out of deference to the "M" on my passport,
I had to wear pants for the flight and for
going through Customs and Immigration, but
that did not mean I should do without my
lingerie. I prepared for the flight as for
any other trip outdoors, by putting on my
bra and panties, a pale beige set. The bra
was slightly padded, for although I already
had breasts, they were barely 36A, not the
36B they have since become. I added a
camisole and tights, opaque black. I put on
a white polo shirt which buttoned on the
"wrong" side for a man (the right side for
me), and pulled on a pair of charcoal grey
stirrup pants. Even if I had to wear a
jacket and pants there was no need for them
to be men's pants and even my blazer
buttoned on the feminine side. I felt naked
without my makeup and wig. Jeannine wore a
smart wool tweed suit in a mix of ivory,
teal, and old rose. I had a matching suit
but it was packed in my luggage.
We took a limo to Montreal Airport. Neither
of us felt like driving with the possibility
of a blizzard in the offing. Thanks to the
limo, we did not need our heavy winter coats
and snow boots, so we both wore running
shoes, Reeboks with pink trim, more
comfortable for a long flight than leather
shoes. As usual, the overnight transatlantic
flight seemed interminable, and we landed at
Ringway airport at six o'clock in the
morning. There were no problems at
Immigration, and we chose the green lane for
Customs, since we had nothing to declare.
Despite the early hour Jimmy and Sue, my
brother and sister-in-law, were at Ringway
to meet us.
"Well, it's a long time since I saw you in
pants, brother!"
Jimmy is captain of one of Manchester Liners
container ships, plying between Manchester
and Montreal. About six times a year
Jeannine and I drive to Montreal and take
Jimmy out for the evening and then sleep on
board his ship before returning home the
next day. On those few occasions, when he
has more than 36 hours in port, we have
taken him home with us. And of course,
Jimmy and Sue have visited us at home from
time to time.
After we had all hugged each other, we piled
our luggage into Jimmy?s green beemer; Sue
and Jeannine climbed into the back, I sat
beside my brother, swinging my legs into the
car in a ladylike manner, despite the pants,
and he drove off. Jeannine pulled out her
compact and applied a little lipstick when
we stopped at traffic lights. I thought of
doing the same, but without my wig, I
thought better of it; lipstick does not got
well with a receding hair-line. We chatted
gaily and discussed plans for what we should
do during our visit. On this day in late
February, the roads were treacherous, and my
old fears about being caught in a car
accident were uppermost in my mind, not so
much the chance of injury, but of what would
happen if I were taken to hospital.
And then it happened. We hit a patch of ice
and the car spun out of control. We were
not the only ones; two other cars were
spinning round and we caromed off one to end
up wound around a light standard.
This was in the days before cars had seat-
belts. Jimmy, behind the wheel escaped
serious injury, and the ladies in the back
suffered no more than a severe jolting. But
I was in the ?suicide seat?, the front
passenger seat, with no seat-belt. I was
thrown head-first through the wind-screen.
The Manchester police were quickly on the
scene, (?Aren?t our police wonderful??) soon
followed by a whole fleet of ambulances.
I came round in the ER room of Prestwich
hospital. What would the nurses think of
me, dressed like this? Then I heard a
gentle voice,
?Can you manage to get your tights off by
yourself, dear, or do you need my help?? I
felt gentle hands easing them off. ?I think
I?ll drop these in the waste bin. You?ll
never be able to wear them again. What?s
your name, dear, mine?s Francesca.?
?My wife calls me Debbie, but at work I am
known as Derek.?
?Just let me ease your knickers off, Debbie,
then we can start on your shirt.?
Once more a gentle touch. ?Now don?t sit
up, Debbie; you may have neck injuries. I
shall have to cut this shirt off. We can?t
take it over your head.?
My shirt and camisole were slit up the sides
and the pieces consigned to the waste bin,
then I felt Francesca unlatching my bra.
?I think I?ll slip this and your knickers
into a plastic bag and then no-one else need
see them. Oh, you really do have breasts,
Debbie. I thought it was all padding. Do
you take hormones??
?No, Francesca. I caught a rather nasty
fever in Africa a few years ago, and these
are one of the side effects.?
Francesca helped me into a hospital gown
and nothing more was said. I was trundled
off to x-ray, and after an endless series of
x-rays and a brain scan, we had the
diagnosis. Nothing was broken except my
face. I had a smashed nose, both cheekbones
were fractured, and my face was pitted with
scraps of broken glass, many of which had
embedded themselves in the bones.
The first job for the Resident was removal
of as many pieces of glass as possible.
Francesca held my hand through much of this,
comforting me and assuaging the pain when
she was not assisting the Resident. Then I
was admitted to the hospital and sent off to
the surgical ward. The next day the plastic
surgeon, Mr. Nanjit Singh, visited me and we
discussed what he would be doing. First, my
nose - what shape did I want? My first
thought was that it should be restored to
its original bulbous shape, but Jeannine
vetoed that, picking out a more delicate
feminine nose for me. Then the muscle band
underneath the right eye needed repair and
the left eyelid would need surgery too, to
make it match. The question of the brow
ridges came next. They were badly pitted by
the glass fragments. Should he try to build
them up again with bone implants taken from
my hip?
?No need for that,? said Jeannine, and I
agreed - why go for extra surgery on another
part of my body. Besides, my brow ridges
were a bit of an embarrassment when I was
xdressed. I asked Mr. Singh (British
surgeons are addressed as mister, not
doctor) to shave down my brow ridges to a
reasonably level surface, taking bone away
instead of adding more. That just left the
question of the cheek bones. They were
pushed well back into my face. Once again
there was the question of the shape they
should take when they were reconstructed.
Jeannine picked out a style with high well-
emphasized cheekbones.
?Don?t you think you might look rather
feminine, Mr. Carruthers??
It was not hard to hide my grin; I was in
enough pain to make grinning not just
difficult but agonising.
Over the next week, while Jeannine was
attending her conference, Singh worked his
miracles in reconstructing my face. Jimmy
and Sue were regular visitors, but one
unexpected visitor was Nurse Francesca, who
came up from the Emergency Room to see me.
She looked around to see if anyone was
within earshot.
?I took your underwear home and laundered it
for you, Debbie.?
?You are too kind, Francesca. You should
not have bothered.?
?It was no trouble. And, they are so pretty
and delicate. It was well to wash them as
soon as possible. I am sorry I had to
destroy the matching camisole.?
She bent over and hugged me - very tenderly,
thank goodness; I was too sore for a strong
hug.
Thus, the insurance paid for much of the
feminization of my face. I should never
have had that surgery just as an elective,
even if I had felt willing to pay for it,
but once it had happened to me, I was happy
to accept it. All my dread at being taken
to a hospital after a car accident was
dispelled thanks to Francesca. I knew if it
ever happened again, there would be no
Francesca, but other nurses might still
treat me kindly and not worry about how I
was dressed.
Finally, I was to be discharged from the
hospital. Jeannine brought fresh underwear
for me, an ivory silk blouse, and my suit
that matched the one she had worn for the
flight. I dressed and climbed into a wheel-
chair with a blanket over my lap to conceal
my skirt for a moment. Sue and Jeannine
took turns pushing the wheel-chair. I
insisted on detouring through the ER. I
wanted to say goodbye to Francesca and to
thank her. Once there I discarded the
blanket. I stood, thanked Francesca and
hugged her. She had the last word. After
looking me up and down she said,
?This will all make you a better woman,
Debbie.?
I took Francesca?s hand in one of mine and
Jeannine?s in the other and squeezed both of
them.
Now all I needed was for my breasts to grow
to match my face.
Annalisa
- 25.10.2021
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