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Shortly after I posted my story, "The Experiment," I went back and looked at it again and decided that it had been a failure. I simply hadn't realized the potential that I had seen in the article that had given rise to it. It was supposed to leap off the screen and grab the reader; instead, it just lay there doing not much of anything. Here on the list we were talking not long ago about whether you could revise a story too much; I fear that the original version of this story had not been revised enough. So I've been tinkering with it ever since. I also enlisted Vickie Tern's help, and she made a number of suggestions that helped greatly in bringing the story nearer to what I had envisioned. Thanks, Vickie! To the extent that it still falls short of its goal, if it does, the lack is, obviously, mine, not Vickie's. The basic plot is still the same: two rather foolish people monkeying with a set of psychological devices that turn out to be more powerful than they had ever dreamed, and that gradually go out of control. But I've brought the story more consistency, more "thrust," and, I hope, more intensity. People on Fictionmania have always been good about replacing original versions of stories with revised versions. I request that they do the same with this revision, using it to replace my original version of "The Experiment." Note that there is at least one other story with the same title; please be sure you replace mine and not somebody else's. I will fill out a new submission form to go with this corrected version. Based on an article I saw posted on the Net. I don't know whether the article is authentic or not, but I thought it would make a good story. I hope it has. The business with the tuning fork is also from the net; same caveat applies. Note that "Kegelciser" may be a registered trademark. May be posted to Fictionmania or to any non-membership, not-for-pay Web page or archive. The Experiment by "Princess Pervette" It was Pamela who brought it up first. "Did you see that piece in the femdom group?" she asked at breakfast. "You mean that thing about induced gender dysphoria?" "That's the one. What did you think of it?" "I didn't know what to think. It's certainly not the usual scene- report kind of thing. It reads like a technical paper, something you'd find in a refereed journal. He even had an abstract. But he didn't mention any journal, didn't give any professional or academic affiliation, didn't include any references. It was technical in style, but that was about it." Actually, neither of us was into feminine domination--"femdom," as its afficionados call it. But soc.subculture.bdsm-femdom is one of many kinky groups in which we lurk, partly because it borders on a couple of the kinks we've tried and partly out of sheer curiosity; and it was there that each of us had found the article. It had a impressive, technical-sounding title: "Induced Submissive Behavior and Gender Dysphoria in Biologically Normal Males." Fancy language for feminization by mainly psychological means, as it turned out when you read the article. "But did you think the piece itself was genuine?" Pamela pursued. "I mean, had he really studied those couples, or was it just a fantasy dressed up as a technical paper? Were those `phases' he mentioned real...?" "You mean, if...someone...tried it, would it work?" "Well, yes." "If someone tried it just as a sort of kinky fun thing and it really worked, they'd be in for a surprise, wouldn't they?" "A nasty surprise or a pleasant surprise?" "Depends on what they wanted, I suppose." "Well...you didn't mind that time when I dressed you up." "But that time was just for a party. And what they were doing in that paper was a good deal more than just dressing up." "Only in the later phases. You have to remember those phases. A couple who wanted to experiment could always stop if the next phase was too much for them." "Could they? I wonder. His language was pretty strong, right from the very start. What did he say? `Hypersubmissive,' he said. Not just submissive, which can be sort of fun within limits, I guess, but hypersubmissive. No limits, that says to me. Or not many. `Demasculinization,' he called it, and `extermination of masculine characteristics.' That sounds scary to me. It may or may not be a real journal paper, but the author sounded as if he means business." Pamela smiled at me. "You sound as if you read the paper very carefully. You picked up all his jargon." "Well...as you said, I didn't mind going to that party in your clothes. Drag is kind of fun. But it's one thing to put on a dress and all the other stuff for an evening, and another thing to have it done to you permanently." "And that has no appeal to you, has it, Bob? So little appeal that you remembered all those phrases about demasculinization and extermination..." "Well..." I hesitated. How do you explain something that is scary and yet somehow fascinating? Something that maybe even exerts a kind of sinister attraction at the same time that you're shuddering at it? "Well, the denial of masculinity is sort of alluringly kinky. In a sense, it's the ultimate perversion, you know, denying or even destroying everything that makes a man who he is." "And that kind of thing, carrying perversion to its extreme, is scary but alluring..." "Alluring, but scary is the way I'd put it." You can see what happened. We had started out talking about the article and were now talking about us. About me, actually. We couldn't have done it a few years previously. But I had made a bundle of money, both as a consultant and as an investor, while the dot-com boom was running up to its peak, and I had had the good luck to get out in time. Now, still in my early forties, I was semi- retired with time on my hands. We never reached any kind of decision that first evening. I don't think either of us consciously thought there was any decision to be reached. At least, I didn't. And you can see from my contradictory remarks that I hadn't really thought the question through. But the discussion left something hanging in the air, and over the next couple of days those words and phrases kept coming back to haunt me: "training," "destabilization of masculinist personality." Nothing you could put your finger on. Nothing concrete like whips and chains --not that we had ever spent much time with those. I wondered: if the article wasn't a hoax or somebody's elaborate fantasy, were these changes reversible? I supposed they would be, up to a point. After that...? Then, two evenings later, Pamela said, a propos of nothing, "I suppose it's for men who never crossdressed as children. Or at any other time." "That's what I thought." I had known at once what she was talking about. I had been thinking about it, too. "If they had any inclinations in that direction, you wouldn't need such a long, elaborate procedure. I suppose it would just be a matter of awakening any dormant femininity in their natures." "But if there were nothing there to awaken...," Pamela said. "...then you'd have to implant feminine feelings artificially," I finished for her. "Yes. By...what did he say?...chemical, behavioralist, hypnotic, and neurolinguistic means." I would describe our marriage as "kink-friendly." We were ready to try anything, within reason, and "within reason" covered a lot of ground. We were mostly faithful to each other, although our marriage was, theoretically at least, an open one. But we found that our extramural adventures left us more pleased with each other than ever. Sometimes we went to swingers' parties held by some friends of ours. That was where I had gone in drag. The guests there were also kink- friendly and the parties were a rich source of new ideas for Pam and me to try. I still remember the pattern of stripes she laid down on my back the one and only time she beat me. Fun in its way, but not a thing that we ever felt like pursuing. And that was so often the way it was. We would try some kink, enjoy it for a bit, and then tire of it. That was where we were just now in our marriage: having tried lots of things and become jaded. So this "demasculinization" thing--at least, its early phases--was beginning to look like another kink we would try and then tire of. But while it lasted, I thought, it might be kind of fun. On the other hand... "On the other hand, completely wiping out every indication that he had ever been a man..." "Not every indication, Darling," Pamela said. "Surgery was only the last phase, and it said that the process rarely went that far." "All right, then. But psychological castration...I mean, there are limits to what you should inflict on a man." "I suppose you're thinking of the woman we saw in Washington." "Well, yes. The one who had her husband in a halter, like a toddler. With a pacifier in his mouth." "But Darling, we're only talking about feminization here, not infantilization." "We're talking," I pointed out, "about the total destruction of my masculinity." "Maybe not destroying, Darling. Not going that far. Maybe just... denting it a little." The conversation had shifted back to me again. I couldn't think of anything better to say than "Oh," so I said that and let the topic drop. Two days later, Pamela suddenly said, "He spoke of choosing subjects who were sexually adventurous..." "...but apparently never adventurous enough to dress up like girls," I finished for her. "But he spoke of resistance in that first phase. If they were adventurous, why would they resist?" "I suppose it depends on who's doing it. On whether they trust them. On what they expect. What they've been told. And on how badly they want it. Or whether they want it at all." Why was all this taking so long? Here we were, two people with almost identical outlooks, obviously interested in experimenting with the things discussed in the article, dithering over this for the better part of a week. Why? We were nervous, that was why. And I was out-and-out scared. The article sounded as if it had been written for people who were playing for keeps. It didn't sound like a simple matter of putting on a dress and makeup and girly things for an evening, or even a weekend, of fun. "Extermination of masculine characteristics" sounded permanent. "24/7" as people say on the Net. I didn't know whether I could live that way. And if I could, how the rest of my life-- friends, my few remaining consulting jobs, things like that--could be fitted in. And--always the big question--whether one could stop. It was scary, but attractive, alluring. And Pamela must have known I was scared. But she was clearly interested. She was the one who brought it up, every time. Well, I was interested, too; scary or not, the article preyed on my mind. I found myself thinking about the procedures he had outlined and wondering how one would go about fleshing them out in practice, and I went back to the newsgroup and reread it a couple of times. Then I noticed that Pamela had downloaded it onto our computer. "I suppose it entails some kind of fairly rigorous discipline," she said a couple of evenings later. "Well, after all, if you are going to castrate a man, it isn't going to be a simple procedure no matter how you do it. With a knife, with drugs...or with psychological programming." "Brainwashing," Pamela said. I stared at her. "Well, that's what it is. Demolition and rebuilding. Extirpating your masculinity and rebuilding you as a girl. Or a woman." Extirpating my masculinity. That was a good bit beyond "just denting it a little." "We could try just Phase One," she continued, after a pause. "That wouldn't be brainwashing. And it wouldn't leave any permanent effects. And we could stop there, if you wanted to." I could see that we were inching our way toward a decision, and there wasn't much doubt how the decision was going to go. That sounded good. A nice way to revive the jaded appetite. Still, "We would have to agree that either of us could stop things at any point," I said. "Freely. Without pressure." That remark, I realize now, carried with it the implication that we would go beyond Phase One. But all Pamela said was, "That of course." The next evening it was I who started the discussion. "Do you have any idea what `neurolinguistic programming' is?" "Oh, yes, I did a search of the Web on it. There's quite a lot of material." She was ahead of me again. She continued, "What I saw wasn't very informative. They all seemed to say the same thing without going into any detail on what specifically was done or how it was done. But the idea seems to be behavior modification. Remodeling people's minds so they could achieve more of whatever is valuable to them. They instanced weight reduction and quitting smoking." "But didn't they say anything specific?" "They said it wasn't hypnosis. But then they talked a lot about trances, and one writer described communicating with the subject's unconscious mind. Giving it requests, or maybe instructions. And there seemed to be a lot about deep relaxation." "Sounds like hypnosis to me." "Well, to me it sounded as if you had to be trained to do it. The way you have to be trained to do Feldenkrais, I suppose, or Pilates. Nothing for amateurs, probably. So maybe that's why they were so cagey. But I suppose we could experiment...?" Without any explicit agreement on the question of whether, we seemed to have drifted on to the question of how. But I think I knew that I was going to say Yes. The next night, when I finally did say Yes, I went to bed wondering just how long it would take for us to get started. What preparations we would have to make, how we were going to go about it. I was still a little nervous about what I was getting into. The article sounded so intimidating. Still, if the Experiment could not continue without my freely given consent--and Pam's--what could possibly go wrong? 2. We started sooner than I had expected. The next morning, on my way to the shower, I opened my underwear drawer--and found it empty. Except for a pair of panties and a bra. Those and the bare wood. I turned back to the bed. Pam was looking at me. "That's all there is, sweet thing. Welcome to Phase One." "You mean you threw out all my other underwear?" "No, I just put it out of the way. To protect you from distractions. And to make room for other things." She grinned. "It's around. It isn't even hidden. But if you happen to stumble across it, you're on your honor not to touch it." She grinned again. "It's panties for you, pretty thing, not Jockeys." It came as a surprise, but not really a disagreeable one. I picked up the bra and panties and went on to the bathroom. Pam called after me, "Remember you've got to pee sitting down." I remembered. I did all my usual morning routine, and once I had towelled off after my shower, I picked up the panties and drew them on. When I had dressed for that party, I had worn panties then, too, but this was different. This was going to be, not just for a day or an evening, but for the duration of Phase One--and any subsequent Phases we might decide to go for. I thought of that as I drew on the panties. Soft, smooth, and very luxurious. Black, with a touch of lace at the waist and around the leg holes. Tiny rosebud at the front of the waist. It had come as a surprise, that other time, to feel how luxurious they were, and it did this time, too. The thought passed through my mind, if this was what "demasculinization" felt like, it couldn't be all bad. In fact, what we were doing seemed pretty tame for something that was supposed to cause--what was it?-- "destabilization of my masculinist personality." I had the inevitable trouble with the bra. I came out of the bathroom with it in my hand. "Don't you remember how you put it on last time?" "I didn't put it on. You put it on me." "Well, it's time you learned, pretty thing. Start out by putting it on backward." And she guided me through the usual business, hooking the ends together, rotating them around to the back, and slipping the straps over my shoulders. Once I had it on, it looked and felt funny. Panties one can always understand, because you want some kind of underwear, after all, and the right kind of panties gave as good support as any man's underwear, but a bra was useless--especially with the empty cups flapping about my chest. I gave Pam a questioning look. "Now what?" "Your other clothes? We'll get some other things for you, but just now I want to watch you in bra and panties. You look cute in them. And I think if you glance down at them occasionally, it will give you a little push on the road to femininity." So you can picture me at the breakfast table in black, lace-trimmed panties and matching black, lace-trimmed bra, with the bra cups ridiculously empty, as I had my toast and coffee. I don't know whether I'd say it gave me the little push Pam was talking about, but I was very conscious of how I was dressed. That other time I had dressed like a woman it had been in the evening, for the party. This time I was crossdressing all day, and purely for the sake of crossdressing. For the sake of being, or becoming, feminine. But after all, I could stop the whole affair any time I wanted to. Couldn't I? After breakfast, it was back to the bedroom. "You need hose, too, little thing. And to wear hose, you'll have to shave your legs." That was no great shocker; I remembered having to shave them that other time, too. As I was starting, I called to Pam, "Should I do my armpits, too?" "No, Darling, your underarms. Men have armpits. You have underarms." When I came out of the bathroom, legs smooth and feeling cool from the residual moisture, Pam had a black garter belt for me. At that party I'd worn pantyhose, but not this time. "I think a garter belt is so much less...mannish...than pantyhose, don't you? After all, Joe Namath wore pantyhose. Even if he only modelled them for an ad, he had them on. And soldiers in Vietnam, as I recall. We don't want you looking like a soldier. Or an athlete." It was a regular, old fashioned garter belt: heavily built, solid rather than lacy, clearly meant for use rather than ostentation. Pam said, reading my thoughts, "The lacy, wispy ones are all right for an evening's fun, but this isn't just for an evening's fun. This is for"--she hesitated--"weeks. Or months." I had a funny feeling she had been about to say, "for good." I had a hell of a time with the belt. First, I had to take off the panties. "They go over the belt, Darling," she said. "We girls never know when we will have to slip out of our panties in a hurry, and we don't want to have to fight with the garters when we do." I tried to fasten the belt in back, but there were four of those tiny hooks and eyes, and I couldn't find where the hooks went by feel alone. Finally Pam let me fasten it in front and turn it around, the way I had with the bra. Then there were the garters themselves. Under Pam's guidance, I rolled the stockings into doughnuts and rolled them onto my legs; that was easy. And the front garters went on well enough. But the ones in back...! Especially the back one on the left; I kept struggling with it and it kept closing with the welt of the stocking lost somewhere down my thigh. Finally, with a sigh, Pam did the back garters for me. Then, apparently, we were done. Pam gave me nothing more to wear. "I want to see my pretty thing in bra, garter belt, and panties all day to-day," she said. "Seeing you reduced to wearing women's underthings is fun, and it should start eroding all those masculine characteristics we need to work on." She had me do the breakfast dishes. Then she had me do housework, dusting the furniture and vacuuming the rugs, still just in bra, hose, and panties. She corrected me every step of the way. It wasn't enough to push and pull the vacuum; I had to push and pull it as a girl would. I hadn't thought there would be a difference, but Pam said there was, and I had to do it her way. And all the time I felt the garters gently tugging on my stockings and the bra squeezing my chest. I could forget the panties, and in fact did, quickly, but these other things were inescapable. And rather pleasant. Up to this point, it hadn't been much different from the usual way in which some women put their men in drag. But after lunch, and more dishwashing, she had me lie down. "All right, sweets, it's time for your treatment. Close your eyes and listen carefully to what I tell you." She started talking to me in a low, clear, intense voice: "To-day is the first step on your road away from manhood and into femininity. It's a long road, but it's the road you need to take. You're overdue for travelling along this road. Listen to me with your unconscious mind and let it guide you on the way. "I want you to visualize with me. Picture yourself on a street near the outskirts of a city. The city is your masculine self, full of machines and power and control. Now look ahead. Ahead of you the street gives way to a dirt road. Follow it.... "You are approaching the countryside now. There are still a few houses about, but not as many, and they are farther apart, not one right next to the other the way they are in town. "Now the dirt road gives way to a path. The countryside about you is your new life as a woman. As a girl. It is soft and green and peaceful, not noisy and violent like the city. See how much nicer it is. How much gentler. How much prettier. You want to go there, don't you? And as you go along the path, you feel your maleness fading away. Not your physical maleness, the maleness in your mind. Softer and gentler..." To my embarrassment, I found myself getting drowsy. I would suddenly realize I had been dozing and would awake with a start. When I awoke, I could still hear Pam talking: "...how right it is for you to be out here in the country. And that means, how right to be wearing girls' under..." and I would doze off again. I ended up sleeping through most of it. I slept for about forty-five minutes, and Pam, I learned later, had spoken to me softly the whole time. When my eyes opened, Pam was saying, "Pretty thing, pretty thing, pretty thing. Time for my pretty thing to wake from its nap." And she reached into one of my bra cups and gently rubbed my nipple inside. That woke me up. "Was that your first stab at neurolinguistic programming?" "Yes," she said. "I've been reading up on it, and it's hard to know exactly what you're supposed to do, except to talk to the subject's unconscious mind. I thought I would take the `pathworking' that they use in New Age religions as a start and go on from there." "Well, I'm sorry, Dear, but all it did was put me to sleep." "Don't worry about that. It's probably better that way. Remember that I'm really speaking to your unconscious mind, and it's going to hear me more clearly when your conscious mind is asleep and not distracting you." "Well, I'm afraid it didn't take," I said. "I still feel like a man in women's underwear." "Look, sweetcakes," she said, still gently rubbing my nipples, "this is only Day One of Phase One. And you're under the care of a rank amateur in neurolinguistic programming. Of course you aren't going to feel any different. But we're going to do this every day from now on, and maybe, if I get it right, I'll begin to make you a girl on the inside as well as on the outside." We made love that night. The panties came off for that, of course, but I was still in bra and hose. It was terrific, as usual, but not any different from any other time. I don't know what I had expected-- whether I was going to want to make love to her like a woman (which I usually did anyway, as a preliminary)--but things went as usual. Until the end. Then she said, "Lie on your back, darling." I did so, and she squatted over my face, her sweet vulva right over my lips. "Eat," she said. And I could taste my own semen in her. "I think I'm going to have you do this from now on," she said. "Girls learn to eat come. You aren't going to be getting any direct from the source, not unless we go well beyond Phase One, but it doesn't hurt to get used to it early on. It will help your girly side to grow at the expense of your mannish side, and once you're really girly inside, you may well acquire a taste for it. Girls frequently do." And I licked and lapped and kissed the semen out of her. It was a strange taste, semen mingled with her own feminine secretions, but not unpleasant. Might I acquire a taste for it...? I pushed that thought away. Pam gave me a nightie to wear, and we went to bed. My first day. A little unsettling, but not too bad, I thought. Not bad at all. Maybe even a bit of a let-down. Perhaps my apprehension had been groundless. No doubt it had. I wondered what to-morrow would bring; then I fell asleep. 3. What the next day brought was a shopping trip. Pam gave me an androgynous outfit to wear: blouse, women's slacks, women's loafers. Not obviously feminine, but not masculine, either. Light makeup, understated; pale, almost clear nail polish. On the shopping trip itself, Pam didn't spare me. When we hit the mall, our first stop was Victoria's Secret. I was familiar enough with their catalogs. When I discovered them I had stopped reading Penthouse; Vickie's models were more tantalizing. But I wasn't ready for the store: bright and big and saturated in femininity. I don't think I've ever been in a place as feminine as that. The whole place seemed to be pink. Pink and rose color. And it looked as if they had decided to use articles of intimate clothing for decor. Panties, bras, slips, everything, some on tables, some on display racks, some on the walls. Everywhere you looked there was satin and lace. Pink satin and lace. And a slight, flowery fragrance in the air. Actually, I don't know how much of this I noticed consciously that first day. I was bewildered by how swiftly Pamela was moving things along, and in a sort of daze, nervous but excited by what was happening. My detailed memories are probably from subsequent visits, of which there were plenty. We had barely walked in the door when a girl came up to us, asking, "Can I help you?" Without a moment's hesitation, Pam said, "My husband, here, is taking a month's vacation from its maleness." I swear, that's what she said, including the "its." "And we have to get some undies for it to wear." The girl didn't bat an eye. You see all types in that business, I suppose. She gave us a guided tour of their lingerie, telling us about each style, and finally Pam selected some Second Skin Satin panties in pastel colors and a couple of pairs with flowery prints. "Can you measure it for its bra?" she asked the girl. This time the girl noticed Pam's use of "it" when she was clearly referring to me. She gave me second look, and I think that was when she noticed that I was wearing makeup. She was caught off balance, but she recovered right away. Faster than I did, in fact. I realized that Pam had been addressing me as "thing" since the start of Phase One. "Sweet thing," "pretty thing," or sometimes "little thing." I supposed this was part of it. The girl took us off to a fitting area, had me remove my shirt, and put a tape around my chest, moving it higher, then lower, then higher again as I breathed in and out. "Probably a 38 or a 40," she said finally. "But the cup size...?" "B", Pamela said decisively. "It hasn't anything there to fill them just now, but we'll take care of that presently. And..." she gestured to the panties I was holding, "do you have anything to match these? I think it should have matching underwear, don't you?" The girl gave us both a very funny look at that, and not just because of the "it." After that came slips, a merry widow, a teddy, a couple of nighties, a soft, fuzzy, pink bathrobe, and a gauzy creation called a "play set" that was embarrassing even to look at. When we left, I was carrying an armload of packages with the Victoria's Secret logo on them. I wondered whether people noticed them. Those pink bags were unmistakable. But of course they would assume they were all for my wife. Wouldn't they? After Victoria's Secret we went off to a department store where Pam found me dresses, skirts, and blouses. She took a particular delight in holding dresses up against me to see how they looked, especially if a sales woman was helping us. Her explanation was unfailingly the same: "Taking a month's vacation from its maleness." They all stared at me when she said that. Some of them were openly disapproving, but one older woman laughed and said, "Good for you, Honey! I just wish I could get *my* husband to do that!" When we went for makeup, the story was the same. Then it was shoes. I expected high spike heels, but Pamela got mainly flats. "More sensible around the house," she said. She did get one pair of heels, but the heels were only two inches high. "The sexy things are for around the house," she explained. "The outerwear is low-key. If the day comes when we want something provocative for you to wear out, we'll get it." Once we were home, I had to model everything, and I have to admit that the dresses and skirts felt good. Since she had gone for style rather than for fetish wear, the skirts were loose enough to walk in comfortably, and in fact, everything was pleasant to wear. (Especially the bras; the girl at Vickie's had clearly known her business.) They were so comfortable, in fact, that I wondered anew why women preferred pants to skirts. We moved all my male clothing out of my closet and boxed it up. "I'll put this with your other male things," she said. "Remember, you're on your honor not to touch them." Then we put all the dresses and skirts into the closet. After the clothes came makeup. "This is going to be the hardest for you," she said. "I don't mean hardest to put up with; I mean, hardest to get right. It takes most young girls a year or so before they know how to make themselves look like ladies instead of tarts." And what a long process that was. I had to shave all over again before Pam decided that my face was smooth enough. Then there was foundation ("We'll skip the beard cover until you're ready to go out, Sweetie"), eye shadow, eye liner, and mascara. Then came blusher, blended with little foam wedges. Finally, she drew an outline around my lips with lip liner and then filled in the outline with lipstick. It seemed to take forever. And when she was all done and let me see...well, it was sort of iffy: on the one hand, I didn't look just like a man in makeup. On the other, I didn't look like a woman, either. So while the result could have been worse, I wasn't too happy with it either. I said so. "Darling, a lot of it is attitude. The only reason you don't really look like a girl is that you aren't thinking of yourself as a girl... yet. In fact, my little thing isn't a girl yet, is it? But you're on your way, and if I can get this neurolinguistic business to work, you will think of yourself as a girl. You'll be a girl from the inside on out. And then, baby, believe me, you'll look like a girl. Even with the same makeup you're wearing now, you'll carry yourself and move like a girl, and that will be what makes the difference." At dinner, she watched me closely as I ate and corrected me whenever she judged me insufficiently feminine. After coffee, we had another programming session. She had me strip down to bra, hose, and panties, the way I had been the night before, and lie down. "Listen to me carefully," she began. "I want you to visualize with me, and I want your unconscious mind to follow us as we go. "To-day you are lost in the midst of a thick forest. Great trees all around you. The light filtering through the leaves above is green. Everything is either shadow or green light. You are trying to find your way toward the edge of the forest, out to the clear fields beyond. "The forest in which you are lost is your masculine nature. It is impeding you, holding you back, obstructing your way. As long as those great trees, thick trunks standing like erect male organs, as long as they stand in your way, you can't make progress toward the open fields of womanhood...." And on it went, pursuing and developing the imagery of constricting manhood and free girlhood, or womanhood. And again I slowly drifted off to sleep and slept through most of the session. I found that embarrassing, but Pam kept telling me that that was good; that my unconscious mind was listening all through. I wondered how she knew that. The next few weeks went the same way. I got up, made sure my legs and underarms were still hairless, and put on whatever underwear Pam had laid out for me. After doing the breakfast dishes, I'd finish getting dressed. Then we had practice in applying clothes and make- up for various occasions--daytime or evening--or for various feminine roles--nymphet, career woman, tramp, or what have you. The rest of the day was spent either finishing off my one remaining consulting job or in some kind of feminine activity--housework, laundering, ironing, or sometimes reading women's magazines. And shopping. Pam went with me the first couple of times; after that I went on my own, usually with a shopping list she drew up for me. And every evening there was more programming, always with me in lingerie and hose. Every other night, or every third, we had sex, and every time she had me eat her clean afterward. The programming seemed to be working, some of it very powerfully. I'm pretty sure that was the reason I was able to shop for women's clothes, and for women's magazines, without feeling uncomfortable. I had expected that I would gradually come to feel at home in women's clothes, but she programmed me, not just for acceptance and comfort, but for desire--for lust. After those first weeks, I would look for whatever Pam had laid out for me and pounce on it in my eagerness to wear it. The more feminine it was, the more girly, the happier I was to wear it. She had put me on my honor not to touch the male clothes she had put away; I couldn't imagine doing so. Why would I ever want to? Frills, pretty things, floral prints, lovely colors...these were all magic to me now, and I would dream of them at night, sweet dreams of billowing ruffles and lace surrounding me, engulfing me... Beyond that, I remember this period as one of great peace and serenity, but whether that was from the programming, too, I don't know, because Pam had started me on tranquillizers. "I don't know whether we need these or not," she said, "but the article called for ataractic pharmacotherapy..." "What's that ataractic business, anyway? He used the word but never explained it." "Oh, Sweets, you really should stick that pretty nose of yours into a dictionary some time. Ataraxis is the production of a state of calmness and relaxation without any dulling of mental capacity. In other words, tranquillizers." But the main thing that happened over these weeks was a gradual sapping of my own initiative. This must have been part of what the article had called destabilization of masculinist traits. I should have been alarmed at this, but precisely because I was becoming more passive, I couldn't rouse myself to combat it. Simply couldn't be bothered. Besides, I could put a stop to it any time I wanted, couldn't I? One evening before programming, Pam said to me, "We're going to have company tomorrow. I thought it would be fun to show you off to Rose." Rose was a neighbor. I wasn't ready for this. Pam saw it in my eyes. "Still shy, Sweets? We'll have to work on that, won't we?" For the event, Pam put me in the most feminine outfit I had. White garter belt and nude hose. White bra. Pretty white slip with lots of lace at the hem. A pale green cotton dress with white ruffles at the neck and sleeves. I was used to doing my own makeup by this time, but Pam didn't want to leave anything to chance and took care of the job herself. My hair was now down a little past my ears. She combed it into a sort of pageboy with bangs in the front. Rose exclaimed with surprise and pleasure when she saw me. "So that's what you two have been up to! Doesn't he look sweet! ...or is it she?" "At the moment, it's an it. Half boy, half girl. It has shed most of its masculinity, but it hasn't yet attained to femininity. Soon, but not yet. So for now it's just it." "Well, he, she, or it, it looks really great! I never imagined such a thing, but if I had, I would have thought he...I mean, it...would look ridiculous. He never...I mean, it never looked the type at all. But it really looks quite presentable. Elegant, really. You've done wonderfully. Has he...I mean, it...gone out? It could, you know." "Oh, yes. Shopping." "You've taken it shopping?" They were talking about me as if I weren't there. As if I were an it, in fact. "I used to. Now it goes by itself." "That's fantastic. And...it...dresses so well!" "Yes, it's developing a real clothes sense." Turning to me: "Sweetcakes, show Rose your slip and stockings." Blushing, I lifted my skirt and then my slip. "That's extraordinary. You'd never guess it was a man. Or used to be. But..." she paused and looked at me. "You know, Pam, its hair needs working on." "Yes. It's interesting that you should mention that. It's pretty long these days, getting long enough that I could really do something with it. If you have any suggestions..." "Well, you know, we could perm it. I have a perm at home. Just got it. Would you like to? I think that would be fun." "Oh, Rose, that would be wonderful! I'm sure it would like it. Wouldn't you, pretty thing?" Passive as ever, I just said yes. Rose dashed off home and came back with the perm. That was an experience! She brought me a flowered smock to wear ("Just the girly thing for it to wear, don't you think?) and there followed the ritual so familiar to women and so new to me: a shampoo, something she called conditioning, lots of little rods in my hair and lots of smelly chemicals. I wasn't entirely sure about the hair, but while they were waiting for the chemicals to take, or to set, or whatever they did, the girls decided to give me a pedicure, and that was lovely. What a treat! While they were exclaiming over my hair, I wiggled and admired my toes tipped in bright red. The hair pleased them; the pedicure delighted me. 4. Even when I had my doubts about what Pam was doing, it didn't bother me. I was happy being passive and less assertive, and I wondered idly whether that was the result of the programming or of the tranquillizers. And the management of the Experiment was gradually passing into her hands. In fact, it was Pamela who decided, after about two months, that I was ready for the next Phase. She spoke to me about it one evening. She started by giving me what she called a progress report. "I don't know whether we have seriously compromised your masculinist traits," she said, "but I think we've made good progress. You're beginning to hold yourself like a woman, and you move like one." I knew what she meant. Just a couple of days previously she had suddenly said, "That's very nice, sweets," and when I asked what she meant, she had explained, "The way you turned on your toe just then. That's very girly." She continued her progress report: "Then there was that business with Rose. Can you imagine doing that two months ago?" "Good grief, no! As it was, I was nervous, but before we began all this I would have been ready to sink into the ground." "Well, I programmed you for it the evening before." She paused. "You know, this neurolinguistic business is a lot more powerful than I expected. I went into it only guessing how to go about it, and even so I've been getting the results I'm after. And then some. It's really remarkable how far you've come." She went on. "You're beginning to talk like a woman, too, and I hadn't even trained you for that. That's a very good sign, because the way we speak reflects how we think about ourselves. Our self image. So you're not only beginning to think like a woman; you're beginning to be one in your own mind. "And that's making you look like a woman. It isn't your appearance, you know. It's the way you move and the way you hold yourself. I've hardly had to teach you anything at all; I've made you a girl inside, and the movements, the mannerisms, the body language, have mostly come as a matter of course. "Besides femininity, I haven't been working for submissiveness so much as passivity. I think we're both curious about how far I can feminize you, but your becoming my slave was never part of the Experiment as I envisioned it and I don't want you for a slave. But you have become very nicely passive, and I find it's getting easier to mold you." I hadn't been aware that she had been "molding" me. She paused. I realized that she was waiting for me to say something. I thought for a few moments and said, "If you want to know how I feel, I'm satisfied with the way we've progressed so far," I said. I went on to tell her how calm and peaceful I felt. "And I wake up in the morning and remember what I am, and it fills me with a sense of happiness and well being that makes me feel good about myself all day." "That's what I've been working for," she said. I could have said more. I could have said how I loved wearing women's clothes. I could have told her how I loved being a girl. Being a girl, not just acting like one. Being one, and feeling like one inside. So far, the Experiment had not only met, but exceeded, my expectations. It never occurred to me to ponder this and wonder how the Experiment might develop in the future if it continued to exceed expectations. "Now," Pam went on, "I think you've gone about as far as Phase One can take you. The article said that Phase Two was a sadomasochistic phase, but it also said it was optional. I've decided that we're going to skip that. I don't think either of us wants that, and I don't think you need it. We played with that a couple of years ago, and it didn't do anything for either of us." I had been a little nervous about starting the next phase. I had been before Phase One, and it was to turn out that I would always be apprehensive when we were about to embark on a new phase. Knowing that SandM wasn't on the schedule was at least some reassurance. She went on: "Now, if we skip Phase Two, then Phase Three is next. You have to decide: do you want to go on? It has to be by your own volition." I grinned. "You eeenter of your own freee weeel," I said, in my best Bela Lugosi imitation. She frowned. "No, Honey, this is serious. You've femmed up very nicely, but I've just been easing you into things. This next phase is going to be an all-out frontal attack on your masculinity. You have to know that and be willing to accept it." Not exactly an incitement to forge ahead, was it? Nevertheless, I stopped clowning, got up my courage, and said Yes. I was curious about just exactly what form that "frontal attack" would take. *** I began to find out the next morning when Pam woke me by rubbing a dildo on my lips. I hadn't even known she had gotten one, but there it was, life sized and very lifelike, and Pam was rubbing it on my lips to wake me up. "Welcome to Phase Three," she said, in the same words with which she had announced Phase One. "Open wide, Girl. Time for sucky sucky sucky." I wasn't keen on the idea. But when I opened my mouth to tell her, she slipped in the dildo. "Tha-a-t's the way," she purred. "Nice girl with nice toy in her mouth. We're going to have lots of toys for girls from now on." She carefully held the dildo at a convenient angle. "Pucker your lips, Girl," she said. "Make them rub it. It's like a long, drawn- out kiss." In this new Phase, I noticed, I had become Girl instead of "it." "And use your tongue," she continued. "I got as lifelike a toy as I could find. Nice contours. Feel them with your tongue. Aren't they lovely?" I spent about half an hour sucking on the dildo; then she withdrew it and said, "That's enough. It will take time for you to become dependent. We'll work on that." She had also gotten a set of three butt plugs in graduated sizes, and she introduced me to the first of these just after breakfast. "We want to open you up, Girl," she explained as she swabbed me with lubricant. Since I always had breakfast and did the dishes in nothing but my feminine underwear, I was all ready except for dropping my panties. I gave a little scream of surprise and delight as she slipped it in. She took her hand away. "Just practice pushing it in and pulling it out. That's the way," she added as I lay on my back doing so. It was so small that it wasn't seriously uncomfortable, and it slipped in and out smoothly and effortlessly. I hadn't realized how exciting it could be to have something up there. Why I was to be opened up was never made clear, although I could guess. But by this time I had become so pacified from her programming and the tranquilizers that I simply accepted it without considering it too much. In fact, I was becoming less vocal about the whole Experiment. There had been so much give-and-take in those discussions before we started; now I was content to relax and let things, whatever Pam had in mind, happen to me. It was only later that I realized that I was, actually fucking myself with the plug. Practice with the dildo and the butt plug became a part of the daily routine under Phase Three. She would wake me up every morning rubbing the dildo on my lips. When my eyes opened, she'd croon, softly, "Sucky sucky sucky," and I'd have my first dildo practice of the day. Then in mid-morning, after I had done the breakfast dishes, she'd call me into the bedroom with "Pluggy pluggy pluggy," and that would be my morning session with the plug. There would be more sucky sucky in the afternoon, and programming in the evening. She would have me wear heavy makeup for the afternoon sucking session. "I want to see those red lips on that thing, Girl. I want you to suck hard. Put your heart in it. I want to see you leave lipstick on it." She took pictures of me sucking on it, close-ups featuring my lips pursed around it. Once I was used to the first plug, I graduated to the next size up. This one was decidedly uncomfortable, and I had difficulty slipping it in and out. "I think you should wear your smallest pluggy around the house, Girl," she said. "Then when we practice with the bigger pluggy you'll be more comfortable. The stretch won't be that much greater." It felt very strange wearing the plug. I had a continual feeling that I needed to go the the toilet, in spite of the fact that Pam had now added daily enemas to the routine. "Feminine hygeine is *so* important, you know," she told me. The next few weeks went this way, and once I had become used to the second plug, Pam moved me up the the biggest of the three, almost two inches in diameter. She retired the smallest plug altogether and started me wearing the medium-sized one. I began to love the way they made me feel. 5. Once I had gotten used to the largest butt plug, Pam was ready with something else. "I think a little more sexual control is indicated, Girl baby," she told me one evening. I had thought my underlying nervousness about the Experiment had been laid to rest, but at this remark it flared up anew. She must have seen the concern on my face, because she went on, "Oh, I don't mean chastity. I have too much fun with you for that. But now that you're a girl, I think we should start de-emphasising that thing between your legs and devoting a little more training to your lips and tongue." This didn't really reassure me. "Oh, I know, you're afraid of being denied your physical needs. Never fear, Girl, we'll take care of them." This was how I learned about milking. I was to be milked regularly, in intervals of satisfying her with my lips and tongue. The "milk" was exactly what you think it was. It took her some time to find a satisfactory technique for milking. This is one of those things about which we had seen a lot of lore but not much actual guidance. It did seem, however, that prostate stimulation was the most likely way. Then we fussed and tried, or rather, Pamela tried and observed the effects on me. She kept saying she was looking for something "more intense." She didn't want to use any kind of electrical stimulation. "Too dangerous, Girl," she said. The real breakthrough didn't come until nearly two weeks had passed. Pam read about it on the Net: a kind of metal rod or probe, with a ball on one end, that you inserted and held against the prostate while applying a vibrating tuning fork to the other end. The rod transmitted the vibrations to the prostate. It sounded crazy but was supposed to have a powerful effect. "We've tried everything else," she said; "we might as well try this." The problem was to find a suitable metal probe. Pam finally found a device called a "Kegelciser" (TM) that looked like the right size and shape. Stainless steel, about seven inches long and maybe 3/4 of an inch in diameter with a ball on the end. It seemed made for the job. The tuning fork was...a tuning fork, which she had found in a scientific catalog. It worked. In fact, it was devastating. The Kegelciser went in comfortably enough, after all my practice with the plugs, but the stimulation, when she applied the vibrating tuning fork, proved so overwhelming that I went into spasms which jerked the probe away from my prostate and nearly threw me off the bed. She had to tie me down to hold me still long enough for the milking to take effect, but whenever she was able to get everything to work I oozed semen, as it seemed, by the gallon. Oozed, not squirted; milking yields semen without orgasm and, in my case anyway, without an erection. She still was not satisfied until one day some men came delivering an enormous crate. "It's a gynecological table," she told me, adding, "You can find absolutely anything on eBay." We set up the table in the spare bedroom, and that was to be the scene of my torments from then on. I would be on my back, helpless, my legs in the air, my feet in the stirrups, and my body strapped down to the table, and then Pam would advance on me with the milking tools, slipping the probe in and applying the tuning fork again and again. I quickly became addicted to being milked. I've called it a torment. Well, it was and it wasn't. It wasn't that the sensation was painful. It was pleasurable. Too pleasurable; that was the trouble. There was a feeling I got, very sexy but not in the usual way. The prostate is sensitive, sexually sensitive, but not sensitive the way the penis is. And while a penis has to be erect for maximum sensitivity, the prostate is sensitive all the time, or anyway mine is. And when she vibrated it with that tuning fork, it excited that sensitivity unbelievably until I couldn't stand it. It was sexual pleasure heightened to the point that it was unendurable. And, unlike an orgasm, it didn't come to an end. It continued as long as Pam continued the stimulation. It was like some kind of nervous electricity that invaded my whole body, not just my butt or my penis, running along my nerves and through my veins and in my bones, producing this fearful tingling sensation. Under Pamela's inexorable ministrations I would twitch and writhe about in an agony of sensation while the "milk" drizzled out of my penis. I hated it and I loved it. I couldn't stand it, and yet if I went unmilked for more than a day or two, I began to crave it. And when she was about to satisfy that craving, when I lay there on the table and felt her putting that rod in me, it felt so good and I looked forward to being milked and wondered how I could ever have disliked it. And then she would touch the vibrating fork to the probe, and suddenly it was more than I could stand. I would cry out, and Pamela would have to shush me. Finally she got me a gag to keep me quiet--a penis gag, so I could feel occupied at both ends. And what happened to the "milk"? Oh, you guessed it. She had me drink it out of the little cup in which she collected it. Months later, she learned how to catheterize my penis safely; then we used a tube that went right up to a hole in the gag, so I could suck my milk through it directly, as if the dummy penis in the gag were real. The programming continued. Our evenings consisted of programming, then waking me up if I fell asleep and milking me, if that was on the schedule for that day. Sometimes it dealt with specific activities, like how good a cock would feel in my mouth. It may have been the dildo sucking, or it may have been the programming, but the one thing I came to love about being milked, even at the height of my agony, was the feeling of that penis gag in my mouth. It was soothing, like a baby's pacifier. It was short enough that the head rested comfortably on my tongue, and as I squirmed and wriggled about on the table, I would suck on it furiously for comfort, and at the height of the stimulation Pam could hear me crooning through the penis gag in a muffled, high pitched voice. I had called it a craving. Indeed, I developed such a dependency on Pam's milking sessions that I would beg her to milk me. Over all the time we had been married, I had never begged her for any kind of sex. I had never had to; it had never been that kind of marriage. But I would beg her for this. Moreover, as time went on I began to lose interest in ejaculating in the ordinary way. This was just as well, because Pam had gently and gradually turned me away from genital sex so that I was now satisfying her only with my lips and tongue. The way a girl would. Shortly after she bought the milking table, we changed the double bed for twin beds. I was invited into her bed for service often enough, but I understood that I was there by invitation only. Another part of her training was turning me toward men. "Now that you're a girl, sooner or later you're going to have one in your mouth," she said. Pam had saved the photos she took of me with the dildo and mounted them in an album. Some times in the afternoon she would have me browse through them while feeding me the dildo. Then, as an improvement, she had me go shopping for beefcake mags for us to browse through. She'd talk to me about the pictures while she fucked me slowly in the mouth: "Girls like to look at handsome hunks like these. [In, out with the dildo.] Don't you love them? [In, out.] Look at the package on that one, Girl. [In, out.] Doesn't that make your mouth water? How many inches do you suppose that is when it's unfurled? [In, out.] Do you think you could handle it?" We didn't stay home through all this. Pam would sometimes come along when I shopped; but we would also go out for meals, anywhere from a pizza place to a nice restaurant, and to movies. After a movie we'd usually stop in a quiet neighborhood bar for a couple of drinks. I was nervous when men approached us, as they did once in a while, but Pam knew how to turn them away politely and without any fuss and did so deftly. Sometimes we'd fall into conversation with other women, and I became good at "girl talk"--clothes, recipes, even children, although Pam and I had none of our own. Pam praised me for the ease with which I fell into a feminine role when interacting this way. But she was preparing me for more than that. I usually slept through programming sessions, but not always, and sometimes I would wake briefly. In this way I noticed that her pathworking was beginning to involve me in much more ambitious outings, not just quiet evenings but parties and even nightclubs, where I was to imagine socializing as a girl, not just with women, but with men, teasing and flirting with them. These imaginary evening affairs worried me: did she intend me to do this in waking life as well? I asked her about this. "Do you actually expect me to be a flirt? Gadding about, going to nightclubs, being vivacious and mischievous, teasing and tantalizing men? Because I don't think I could handle that. I'm not that kind of outgoing person. I've never been." She smiled. "You don't know where we were Thursday evening, do you?" That caught me off guard. "Thursday evening? We didn't go anywhere Thursday evening, did we?" By way of answer, she said, "You did notice that your black dress, the polyester with the drape neck, was over a chair Friday morning, didn't you, not in the closet? You hung it up yourself. How do you think it got there?" "I never thought about it. You took it out for some reason? To clean off a spot you'd noticed?" "Oh no, you do that yourself these days. You know that women take much better care of their clothing than men do. You're very good about that. Aren't you curious?" I was now, a little. She explained: "We went out dancing." "What?" I was frightened. Thursday I went dancing...? Without knowing about it? I hesitated, then said what I was thinking... "With men?" "Oh no sweetheart, with me, at a lesbian place I found out about. It was Saturday night you had your first dance with a man. I blocked it out of your memory." I was stunned. She was reassuring. "Just one man. He was a perfect gentleman and you...you were a real charmer! Haven't I told you how well you move now, without even knowing it? How feminine? I just wanted to see how you'd behave in a man's arms after all of your training. Well, don't worry, you were fine. He never guessed. And we came straight home afterward, and you were so happy that you'd `passed the test,' as you said, that it was hard to quiet you down for your programming." I hesitated. I guessed I thought it was all right, if she did. "So," I said, "how did you feel about this?" "Oh, it was fun. It's been fun quite a few times now, getting you to do things you would have been afraid to try. And you know that I won't ever let you come to any harm, don't you?" "Yes, of course." "Then you don't need to worry about it, do you? You're enjoying your new experiences as a girl, and I'm enjoying my new role in bringing them to you. Enlarging your horizons. All right?" This was a lot to get used to. Finally, "Yes," I said. "But I do like knowing what I'm doing...er, what I've done. Do you mind not blocking it out of my memory afterward?" "Oh no, Sweets. That won't be necessary any more. Now that you know how much more you're able to do than you imagined." 6. One evening three months later we received an invitation from our swinging friends to a sex party. This wasn't the first such party by any means. It was to one of those parties, in fact, that Pam had taken me en femme. Usually I looked forward to these evenings with anticipation; that time I had been nervous. But this time there was an extra edge to my nervousness, because Pam announced that, if we went, the party was going to mark the beginning of the next Phase. This would be Phase Four, further along than I had ever imagined going back at the start. "This is going to be the Real Thing, Girl," she told me. "I think you're ready for this. I think you need it. But I have to have your consent; that's the rule. Think about it." There wasn't much doubt in my mind what I would be expected to do at this party. Not after all that programming and all that play with the plugs and the dildo. This party was going to be a new and steeper step down the slope into demasculinization. As I had been previously, I was apprehensive, but curious. Curiosity won out, as it was bound to; the next day I told her I would go. These parties had only two rules: everything had to be consensual, and you were not to do anything with your own spouse or partner. Otherwise, anything went. There had once been a pretty dramatic flogging a couple of years back, but people generally steered away from SandM. The one other time I had gone in drag, I had encountered a couple of women there who were attracted to crossdressed men. They had liked the way I looked and had decided to share me for the evening. A couple of men had hit on me, too, but I hadn't been interested then, and the nice thing about these parties was that a simple No was always enough. This time, it was to be different. For that other party, we had gone for the co-ed look. But this time, Pam put me in strappy heels, fishnet hose, a miniskirt, and a see- through blouse with a contrasting lace demi bra underneath. She had me wear a cheap, frizzy blond wig, cheap perfume, and too much make- up. By the time she finished with me, I was a walking incitement to riot--or more likely, to arrest for soliciting. And, appropriately for this latest Phase, I finally received a girl's name: Dolly. At the party, I created a sensation. And things started happening right away. I was fixing myself a very mild scotch and water at the bar when Harry sidled up to me. Now, Harry and his wife are neighbors of ours, the only ones living near us who ever come to these parties. He's a slim, good looking guy, and if I were gay, I would have made a play for him years ago. As it was, I had always pretty much ignored him--until the Experiment. Now I looked at him with a decidedly feminine interest. He was wearing baggy sweats, a top and pants that concealed what I knew to be a good figure. He contrasted with some of the more provocatively dressed men, but his outfit had the advantage that he could take it off quickly. I started to wonder.... I didn't have to wonder for long. "What's a pretty girl like you doing in a joint like this?" he asked me. The line struck me as so obvious that I giggled. He had used it on me the other time I came dressed. I had refused him then; this time, I said, "Waiting for a handsome hunk like you." It was the right answer; he grabbed me and kissed me, hard. "You're not going to say No this time, are you?" I give him another hot kiss as an answer, our tongues duelling. We went off in search of a free bedroom. On our way we happened to catch sight of Pam giving a blow job to a regular at these parties. She saw me and winked at me. She was cheerful; I was not. All my fears had returned: in a few minutes, I would probably be expected to do the same for Harry. Would I be able to? This was no dildo, no penis gag; this was a man, a living male human being--and no stranger, either, but a neighbor whom I regularly saw on the street and chatted and traded jokes with. Would I be able to bring myself to do this? Or would I find myself incapable? I had never been gay. Never had any inclinations in that direction, never even cared to explore the possibilities, although these parties always offered opportunities. But, I told myself, I wasn't a gay man about to get cosy with another man, I was a girl. That must be the oldest rationalization in the book, but it had been the point of all Pam's neurolinguistic programming and training. And as a girl, *of course* I would have sex with men. On the other hand, it's one thing to dream of these things while looking through a beefcake magazine and another to walk down the hall with a man who's fondling my butt toward a room where all those fantasies were about to become a reality. What if, when I reached out to play with him, I was unable to touch him? What if I withdrew my hand, involuntarily? What would happen then? Would I have to apologize and creep ignominiously out of the bedroom? Or might he force me? I wondered momentarily whether this newest Phase was really a good idea. When we stepped across the threshold, he lifted the back of my miniskirt and caressed my cheeks through my panties. That should have given me a thrill of anticipation; instead, it made me even more apprehensive. I felt his erection through his sweat pants; he wasn't wearing any underwear. He fondled my breasts. "Real?" he asked with a grin. I shook my head. Pam had invested in a pair of breast forms for me, the best and most expensive she could find. They felt real, cemented to my chest as they were