Miss Disaster
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Dressed For Disaster free porn video
FORWARD: Nom de Plume is the screen name for the author of
The Jessica Project, a gender-bending thriller about a
crossdressing assassin from Publishamerica.com. While doing
research for The Jessica Project, the author discovered
this site, and became intrigued by the dramatic potential
of characters masquerading as the opposite sex under
extreme circumstances.
WARNING: The following story involves the events of 9/11.
If those events are still too painful to relive, please
read no further.
DRESSED FOR DISASTER
(c) 2002 by Nom de Plume
After a last look at himself in the full-length mirror on
the closet door, Pat put his magnetic key in his purse and
left his hotel room.
He had done this enough times to be almost calm as he
waited for the elevator. When the door opened, he was
relieved to be greeted by an empty lift. It always took him
a few minutes to gain the required confidence to melt into
his alter ego, and being drawn into a conversation with a
stranger on an elevator was not an easy way to begin the
transition.
Pat Summers had been fascinated by women's clothing for as
long as he could remember. As he grew up, furtive sessions
trying on articles from his older sister's wardrobe had
produced his first erections, and his discovery of a world
of kindred souls on the Internet had fueled his strange
fixation. The intense sexual arousal which he experienced,
combined with the excitement brought about by the forbidden
nature of his activity, had produced a compulsion to dress
up as a girl, which became addictive as grew from boyhood
into a young man.
Pat had always been a careful and meticulous person, which
enabled him to hide his secret from his family and
girlfriends. In fact, Pat was a true heterosexual, and for
a time during his teenage years he had abandoned his fetish
as his energies were absorbed by the pursuit and conquest
of girls. But it was always there in the background, and
now, in his late twenties, happily married with a young
daughter, it had reemerged with renewed zest. Sex with his
wife had tapered off, and in some ways crossdressing served
as a harmless alternative to chasing other women.
On this particular occasion, Pat was on a business trip to
the New York financial district. He had covertly
accumulated an expensive wig and a collection of skirts,
dresses, lingerie, makeup and accessories over the past
several years, which he took with him when he traveled in
order to indulge his hidden passion. At first, he was
content to make himself over in the privacy of his hotel
room. However, as he perfected his techniques, he found
himself drawn to expose his new persona to the outside
world, which took the form of excursions from his hotel
rooms to museums, department stores, and other public
places.
Pat's outings were carefully designed to minimize
interaction or intense scrutiny. He had trained himself in
the use of a female voice, but he was not confident in his
ability to maintain it in a sustained conversation. His
slight frame and fine features enabled him to pass
convincingly as a woman, and although he was rarely read as
a man, on the rare occasions when this did occur the
humiliation was devastating. Perhaps the risk of discovery
and exposure added to the excitement he felt as he moved
through the world as a woman.
Pat's self-feminization inevitably resulted in an explosive
orgasm, followed by a brief period of shame and self-
loathing before the compulsion arose again. Now, as he rode
the elevator to the lobby of his hotel in the World Trade
Center, his pulse was racing from the intoxicating scent of
his perfume, and from the feeling of nylon stockings on his
freshly shaved legs.
Pat emerged from the elevator and demurely wove his way
past the crowd of impatient guests waiting to enter it. As
always, he was relieved to experience no stares or double-
takes as he made his way through the lobby, the clicking of
his heels on the marble floor secretly thrilling him. He
smiled at the doorman and joined the throng on the busy
sidewalk.
It was just before nine o'clock on a beautiful September
morning. Pat's knee-length shirtdress billowed in the light
breeze, and as he waited for a light to change on Liberty
Street, he removed a cigarette from his purse, lighting it
with feminine grace. Pat inhaled deeply, and the smoke in
his lungs added a beat to his racing heart.
His plan for the morning was to browse through the
underground shopping mall located a few blocks from his
hotel, stopping to buy some nylons and sip a coffee at the
local Starbucks, before walking over to the New York Stock
Exchange for a glimpse from the visitors' gallery. His
first meeting of the day was a noon lunch appointment on
Wall Street, which gave him a good two hours before he had
to be back in his room to scrub off his makeup and change
into his business suit.
Suddenly, a shattering explosion from far above Pat sent
him sprawling to the pavement. Screams filled the air as
Pat gasped for breath. His stockings were torn from
scraping his knees against the curb, and one of his shoes
had fallen off. He was about to get up when a man tumbled
against him and sent him back down again.
Pat rolled onto his rear end, in a state of shock, and
pulled his dress over his bloody knees. He looked up to see
an enormous fireball rising from one of the towers of the
World Trade Center. As he tried to grasp what was
happening, pieces of debris began to rain down onto the
sidewalk. Shaken and confused, he got to his feet and began
to search for his missing shoe.
A police officer appeared and began urging people to move
away from the area. Spotting his shoe, Pat brushed past him
and reached down for it. The policeman took his arm and
steadied him as he struggled to slip it back on.
"Are you okay, Miss?"
Pat struggled to maintain his composure, deliberately
reaching for his female voice. "Yes, thanks" he replied.
Pat had learned to speak in short, simple phrases when
posing as a woman, and the years of practice did not desert
him. "What happened?"
"Not sure. Looks like a plane crashed into the north tower.
Can't believe it."
Several other passersby joined them. "Was it an accident?"
"Did you see the plane hit?"
"Look out!" a woman cried and pointed to an object hurtling
down from the flaming building. As it hit the ground a few
yards away, the horrified crowd realized that it was a
body.
"Oh my God!"
"Clear this area now!" the policeman ordered. "Everybody
head away from the World Trade Center."
As Pat began to move with the crowd, his mind was reeling.
To Pat, the real and immediate danger was not from the
explosion and fire above him. Rather, he was terrified that
he might not be able to get back to his hotel room and
return to his male identity. If the hotel was blocked off,
and he was stranded on the street in woman's clothing, he
would never be able to make it out of New York without
being found out. His marriage and his six-figure income
were suddenly in jeopardy.
Pat turned around and began to walk against the flow of
pedestrian traffic back towards his hotel. He made it about
halfway there when there was another terrific explosion.
Looking up, Pat saw the remains of a jet aircraft slicing
through the other tower, and watched in horror as pieces of
airplane and building cascaded towards the ground.
"Evacuate the area!" he heard above the screams and the
wail of sirens.
The stream of humanity moving away from the stricken
buildings swelled into a flood, and it was all Pat could do
to hold his ground as he pressed himself against a
shattered storefront. He could see his reflection in the
cracked plate glass window, and instinctively paused to
adjust his wig and examine his profile to make sure he was
still passable.
Looking back at him was a dazed young woman, with strands
of hair falling across her forehead. Her blue dress was
torn at the hem, and her legs were a bloody mess. But she
was definitely a woman, not that anyone in the crowd would
have taken the time to study her. They had more important
things on their minds.
For Pat, however, the enormity of the surrounding tragedy
was dwarfed by his fear that he would be discovered to be a
man wearing a dress. He tried to force his way against the
tide of humanity, eventually returning to the revolving
doors of his hotel. Two policemen blocked his way.
"I have to get back to my room."
"Sorry, lady, this area has been sealed off. Nobody gets
in."
"But officer..."
"You heard me. We have a lot of injured people here. Please
move on."
Pat could see that the situation was hopeless. As he joined
the frantic crowd on the sidewalk, he forced himself to
think about a new plan. If he could not return to his hotel
room, he would have to find some other way to get out of
his clothes and get into something presentable. Then, he
could ride out the crisis until things returned to normal.
Mentally, Pat inventoried the contents of his purse. Hotel
room key, lipstick, compact, cigarettes and lighter, breath
mints, tissues, hairbrush, and a woman's wallet with - how
much? $80! Not very much to establish a new identity. Pat
did not have a credit card for his female persona, and he
had decided against carrying his ATM card. A new pair of
pantyhose, a caf? latte, and an admission ticket to the
stock exchange was the only things he had planned to spend
any money on that morning.
So he would have to get by on the bare minimum required to
strip away any traces of femininity. Looking to his left,
he saw a 24-hour drug store, and went inside. The registers
were crowded with people buying bottled water and gauze
facemasks to help them breathe the acrid air outside.
First to the cosmetics aisle. Pat grabbed a small bottle of
nail polish remover, and found a travel pack of pads to
wipe off his makeup. Then to an aisle displaying
inexpensive athletic clothing. He found a cheap pair of
cotton navy sweatpants, and a white long sleeve tee shirt,
which said "I Love New York." A pair of white sox went into
his basket, and he began to search for something to walk
in. He found some white canvas sneakers, which were priced
higher than he expected, and he tallied up the cost of what
he had found. With sales tax, it came to almost $70, which
meant he would be penniless if he bought anything else.
In order to leave himself enough change for a subway token
and a phone call, he would have to keep wearing his white
satin panties. He quickly decided that that was the least
of his problems. He could always take them off before he
got home, if he got home. Joining the long line at the
registers, he started to plan his next objective: finding a
place where he could get out of his dress and heels, change
into his new clothes, and re-emerge as Patrick Summers.
The teenage clerk at the register looked at his odd
assortment of purchases, and saw right through him. Damn!
He had always had the most trouble with teenage girls!
"Having fun today, sir?"
Pat smiled and put on his best face. "Ich spreche keine
Englisch." Lame, but he has used it in the past in similar
situations.
"Whatever," she said with a shrug as she rang up the sale.
Pat fumbled in his purse for his wallet, and pulled out
four twenty-dollar bills. As she counted out his change,
she noticed his torn dress and stockings. "Hey, I'm sorry,
mister. Here you go."
Pat took his change and gave her a forced smile. He did not
look back to see whether any of the people waiting in line
had witnessed his mortification. Taking his plastic
shopping bag, he walked out of the drug store and back into
the bedlam on the sidewalk.
The smoke, the sirens, and the utter pandemonium shocked
him. Yet in the midst of this incredible catastrophe, he
had somehow managed to concentrate on his immediate
predicament. Although there was panic all around him, he
had no concerns about his personal safety. All he could
think about was protecting his secret and preserving his
reputation.
He spotted a large hotel a few blocks from where he had
been staying, and approached the front entrance. There were
no doormen to be seen, and he went into a large glass and
brass revolving door, emerging into a lobby, which was
eerily calm. Several fire department officials were setting
up a makeshift command post in the lobby bar, and as he
walked towards the restrooms, an assistant manager
approached him with a look of concern.
"Are you all right, Miss?"
Pat realized that he must look a sight. "Yes, thanks, I'm
fine."
Pat did not want to get into a conversation about where he
was staying, and he certainly did not want to alert the
hotel staff that he was about the enter the ladies' room.
The incident with the clerk at the drugstore was still
fresh on his mind.
"Why don't you sit down for a few minutes, and I'll find
you a doctor. Those cuts look pretty nasty."
"Really, I'm fine," Pat assured the young man.
Moving away, he found his way to the ladies room and walked
in without hesitating. His plan was simple: change in one
of the stalls, and wait until there was nobody else in the
restroom before leaving it as a man.
The restroom was unoccupied, and he went into the
handicapped stall and started to work. First, he scrubbed
the makeup off his face with several of the towelettes.
Next, he unbuttoned his dress and stepped out of it. Using
the dress as a rag, he doused a corner of it with nail
polish remover, and began stripping off the coat of quick
dry polish, which he had applied the night before. When he
was through, he slid off his white slip, pulled off his
bloody pantyhose, and unhooked his padded bra.
Dressed only in his satin panties, Pat rummaged through the
sack from the drugstore and found the white cotton sox.
Next, the tee shirt and sweatpants. As he bent down to put
on his sneakers, for the first time in over an hour, Pat
allowed himself to relax a bit. He fished through his
purse, and salvaged the remaining bills and coins. Now all
he had to do was wait until the coast was clear, have a
quick look at himself in the mirror, and duck out of the
ladies room. He heard someone moving about by one of the
sinks, so he settled in to wait.
Suddenly, the lights went dark, and there was a terrible
roar. The whole building seemed to rock, and the cacophony
of noises was deafening. For a moment, it seemed like the
end of the world. Pat fell to his knees and waited for the
floor to stop quaking.
Finally, the noise stopped, replaced by a sensation that
Pat had never experienced. He could feel the grit in the
air as it went into his lungs, bringing about a drowning
sensation that sent him gagging and choking to his feet.
Pat staggered out of the restroom and into the wreckage of
the hotel lobby. The sight before him was unbelievable.
Broken glass was all over the place, and the assistant
manager he had spoken to a few minutes before lay
unconscious on the floor, a deep gash in his forehead. Dust
was everywhere, on everything, and the bright September sun
had been replaced by deep gray gloom. Sirens, screams, and
garbled transmissions from police and fire department
radios filled the air.
Pat realized what had happened. One of the twin towers must
have collapsed, covering an area several city blocks wide
with debris. The other tower could still be seen through
the awful haze, and next to it stood his hotel. Although
his immediate problems were behind him, Pat was still
deathly afraid that his secret would be discovered when the
hotel staff or authorities opened his room. The thought of
someone calling his office or his wife to ask them where to
send his skirts and high heels tormented him.
Once again, ignoring the larger risk to his personal
safety, Pat set out towards his hotel. Maybe now he could
make it back inside, bundle up the rest of his
incriminating wardrobe, and dump it outside of his room. If
he were lucky, he would also be able to retrieve his laptop
computer, with its hard drive full of transvestite
literature.
He was halfway back to the hotel when someone screamed,
"The other tower is starting to go!"
Pat looked up in time to see the monumental television
antennae on the roof pitch to one side, signaling the
beginning of the end. He turned and joined the frantic
crowd racing away from the World Trade Center. Someone
ahead of him ducked into a doorway, and he followed an
instant before a hurricane of debris swept through the
concrete canyon, filling the air again with choking dust.
Once more, the sky became dark, and time stood still as Pat
huddled in the doorway, waiting for the tumult to subside.
Then it was quiet, and Pat stepped back into the deserted
street. He knew that he had just witnessed the deaths of
hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, and suddenly his
pathetic problems seemed insignificant. He was just
thankful to be alive. Slowly, he joined the parade of
refugees heading north, away from the disaster, some
limping, others bleeding, many crying hysterically.
He had a special empathy for the women, professionals and
secretaries, in their dusty suits and skirts, hobbling
along in their high heels. Many abandoned their painful
shoes, and trooped through the filthy streets in their
stockings or bare feet. He couldn't help thinking how lucky
he was to have gotten out of his woman's clothing. Looking
at the misery around him, he felt ashamed to have given
that a thought.
As they approached Washington Square Park, he saw several
television crews with mini-cams interviewing passersby. One
of the reporters waved at him and motioned him over. Pat
stepped out of the crowd and approached her.
"How about a quick interview?"
Why not? Pat said to himself. He was totally in the clear.
Maybe his wife, parents and co-workers would see him on TV.
They had to be wondering about him. His cell phone was back
in his hotel room, undoubtedly crushed under tons of steel
and concrete, as unrecognizable as the clothing and
computer that he had worried so much about.
"Okay," Pat said to the newswoman.
She was cute, with short blonde hair, and she had an impish
smile as she pointed him towards her cameraman. She was not
accustomed to doing hard news, and she seemed desperate for
something to break the tension of reporting the traumatic
events of the past two hours.
"What is your name?" she asked him as he stared into the
camera.
"Patrick Summers."
"Where are you from, Mr. Summers?"
"Chicago." His escape had been a catharsis, and he began to
feel almost giddy.
"What were you doing when the towers were attacked?"
Pat hesitated momentarily, thinking about his response.
"Parading around the streets of New York in a dress and
high heels." would not be a good answer. Remembering that
he was dressed in sweatpants and sneakers, he replied, "I
was out for a jog before my business meeting."
"Did you see the impact?"
"I was getting a cigarette out of my purse." would be
another bad answer. "No, but I heard the explosion," Pat
said.
"And did you get away from the area before the buildings
came down?" the reporter asked him.
Pat did not tell her that he was changing out of his
lingerie and stockings at the moment the first tower
collapsed. "No, I had ducked into a building."
"Well, you were very fortunate, Mr. Summers. I have only
one more question. Why are you wearing a wig and earrings?"
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