The Training Of Slut Heather The Sequel
- 3 years ago
- 35
- 0
Dressed For Disaster - The Sequel free porn video
FORWARD: This is the final episode of the Dressed for
Disaster trilogy, by the author of The Jessica Project, a
gender-bending thriller now available on-line from all
major booksellers.
DRESSED FOR DISASTER - THE SEQUEL
(c) 2002 by Nom de Plume
Patrick Summers wandered the streets of lower Manhattan in
an aimless fog, the chaos surrounding him a lurid backdrop
for the turmoil between his ears. He had just suffered two
tremendous shocks: his narrow escape from the collapse of
the World Trade Center, and his unmasking as a crossdresser
on television.
As he moved north towards Greenwich Village, Pat
desperately tried to think. The local station, which had
filmed him fleeing the disaster in a woman's wig and
earrings, would surely discard the footage as out of
keeping with the enormity of the event. Even if they did
show it, it was unlikely that any of the networks would
pick it up and broadcast it in Chicago, he reasoned. As far
as his family or co-workers knew, he might well be dead.
Had it not been for the twin shocks to his system, it is
likely that Pat would have called his wife and secretary,
assured them that he was alive, and gone about making
arrangements to return to Chicago. Instead, as he turned
down a narrow street into the heart of the Village, strange
thoughts began to excite him. He could escape his humdrum
existence, leave his family set for life with the insurance
money, and establish a new identity in his alter ego. He
could reinvent himself as Patricia Summers.
Pat's compulsion to dress as a woman had grown stronger
over the past year, and perhaps it was inevitable that he
would have been led to this path. In any event, his
vulnerability following the trauma of the morning, and the
unique opportunity presented by his brush with death,
fueled his fixation and emboldened him to live out his
fantasies.
As he moved down the quiet street, Pat took stock of his
situation. He was dressed in a cheap sweat suit and
sneakers, still clutching the wig, which he had torn off
his head as he ran from the cameras. His earrings, and all
of his other feminine paraphernalia, had been lost or
destroyed. He had about ten dollars in his pocket. If he
tried to access his bank accounts, any chance to fake his
death would be foreclosed.
He found himself approaching an adult bookstore. Entering
without hesitation, he picked up a newspaper filled with
personal advertisements and started to leaf through it. The
greasy cashier behind the high counter eyed him warily as
he turned the pages, until one advertisement, in bolder
type than the rest, caught his attention:
WANTED: SUBJECTS FOR ROLE REVERSAL EXPERIMENT. Must be
heterosexual, under thirty, and in good health. Successful
candidates will be required to live as a member of the
opposite sex for a minimum of three months. All expenses
and a generous stipend will be provided. Deadline for
application is Sept. 15, 2001.
The advertisement ended with an email address. Pat
memorized it and returned to the street, looking for an
Internet caf?.
***
Dr. Vendetta Frankenwiener switched off the television and
walked out onto her rooftop terrace, overlooking Washington
Square park and the horror to the south. The air was thick
with dust and debris, and she wondered if the wail of
sirens would ever end.
To most New Yorkers, daily life had been eclipsed by the
events of the morning, but such was not the case with
Doctor Frankenwiener. Her bizarre compulsion to feminize
unwilling men had long ago crowded out other, human
emotions, and her principal reaction to the events of the
day was frustration that her latest round of experiments
might be delayed.
Returning to her small study, she switched on her computer
and checked her emails. To her surprise, she read the
following message:
Interested in your experiment.
Please provide contact information.
Must have response no later than five o'clock today.
That was odd. She had never been pressed by a subject for a
response like that. Usually she had to cull through an
assortment of pranksters and deviants, looking for a
witless subject who would submit to her experiments. Rarely
did they take the bait like this. Nevertheless, she decided
to reel him in. She replied:
Come to 19865 Bleeker Street, Apt 4C,
at six o'clock tonight.
When Pat returned to the caf? a half hour later, and logged
on again with his dwindling supply of cash, he retrieved
her message, and jotted down the address. He had been
careful to use an Internet address, which he had set up for
transgendered chat rooms, and thus unknown to his family or
employers. He thought briefly of his wife and daughter, and
of the rest of his family, who must be worried sick about
him, and assuming the worst. They would be better off
financially with the insurance money, he assured himself.
Soon there would be no turning back.
At precisely six o'clock, Pat was buzzed into a narrow
brownstone building, and he walked up four flights of
stairs to apartment 4C. The hallway outside the apartment
was dark and musty, and he hesitated for a moment at the
door. Before he could knock, he heard the deadbolts sliding
back, three in all, and the door opened to reveal a woman
in her mid thirties, dressed in a long white coat. She was
attractive, with curly black hair and piercing brown eyes,
and she waved him into the apartment without a word. After
closing the door behind him, she carefully engaged the
deadbolts, locking them with a key, which she replaced in
her coat pocket.
Pat stood awkwardly in her small apartment. It was modestly
furnished, with an oriental rug over a worn oak floor, a
sofa with two unmatched chairs, and a few antique pieces.
"Please, sit down," she told him, gesturing to the sofa as
she sat herself in one of the chairs. She was wearing a
short skirt under her laboratory coat, and as she crossed
her legs, she noticed with approval Pat's interest.
"I came about the experiment," Pat said finally.
"Yes, you are fortunate that I received your message and
was able to respond before your deadline. Tell me, why the
urgency?"
Pat had rehearsed the answer to this question. "I was
concerned about your deadline of September 15th. If it
weren't for them closing all the airports, I wouldn't even
be in New York right now. Since I'm stuck here, I thought
I'd try to learn more about your experiment, before
deciding whether to leave. Are you a doctor?"
"Yes. Do you have a family?" she probed.
"No," Pat lied. "I live alone, in Chicago. For a variety of
reasons, I have time on my hands over the next several
months, and your experiment intrigued me. Is this some kind
of university study?"
"No," she replied. "It is a privately funded program. I
take it you read the qualifications in the advertisement?"
"Yes, I am a straight man under thirty, if that's what you
mean."
"Excellent. Let me get you something to drink." She had
already decided that he was a perfect subject, slender and
relatively short, and his boyish face was too good to be
true. She went into a small kitchen, and emerged a minute
later with two glasses of ice tea. Pat drank as she
observed him carefully, then she took a sip from her own
glass and picked up a notepad from a small table beside her
chair.
"What is your name, please?" she asked him.
"John Smith," he replied.
She raised an eyebrow as she wrote it down. "Mr. Smith, the
program for which you are a candidate requires your one
hundred percent participation over a period of twelve
weeks. Will that present any problems in terms of your
family or employment?"
"I've already told you, I have no family, and I am an
independent contractor, so there are no restrictions on my
time." He began to feel more at ease, and started to loosen
up. "Tell me about the program."
"Certainly. First, I have a few other questions. Should you
be selected, and choose to enroll, we have to start
immediately. Do you have any other commitments that you
will have to disengage from in order to proceed?"
Pat took another sip of ice tea, and began to feel slightly
light-headed. "No, I've already told you, I wasn't even
expecting to be in New York tonight."
"Does anybody know where you are right now?"
If Pat had not already been drugged, he might have been
alarmed by this question, and possibly tried to save
himself. Instead, he replied thickly, "No, why do you ask?"
She gave him a grim smile. "The reason for that question
will soon become apparent, Mr. Smith. Congratulations, you
have been accepted into the study. Please sign here," she
said as she produced a legal-looking document and handed
him a pen.
Pat flipped through it and struggled to focus on the words.
"What does it say?"
"Just formalities, Mr. Smith, don't worry your pretty head
about them. Sign it. Now."
With an effort, Pat started to scrawl his signature on the
page, realizing too late that he had written his real name.
As he started to cross it out, the mad doctor stood up and
pulled it away from him. "Pat Summers," she read aloud. "A
lovely name. We are going to have such fun together!"
Pat tried to get to his feet, before he passed out onto the
threadbare carpet.
***
Pat woke up in a cold sweat in a dark room. His head was
throbbing and he was dying of thirst. When he tried to move
his arms, he discovered that they had been strapped down.
He seemed to be lying on some kind of gurney, under a white
sheet. His legs were also immobilized, and his head was
propped up on a hard pillow.
A door opened, and lights were switched on to reveal what
looked like an operating room. As he squinted in the
painful light, the woman in the doctor's coat approached
him. Everything seemed vaguely familiar, as if he were
reliving a very bad dream.
"Water," he croaked.
Without a word, she produced a glass of water, and he
struggled to raise his head and drink it. Swallowing it all
exhausted him, and he fell back onto the pillow.
"Where am I?"
"Where no one will ever find you."
"What have you done to me?"
"Don't you remember the personal advertisement you
responded to? Or coming to my apartment? Or the legal
papers that you signed?"
It was all coming back to him, but there was something
else. He struggled to put it together. "I feel like I've
been here before..."
"Dear, sweet, innocent Pat. Did you really think those
stories you read on the Internet weren't true?"
Oh my God! Vendetta Frankenwiener! Surely she was a figment
of the imagination! This couldn't be happening!
"Your timing was unfortunate," she told him. "I have been
looking for the perfect subject for a little experiment."
"What do you mean?"
"The liquid you just drank contained a mild sedative. While
it is taking effect, let me show you my progress so far."
She tore back the sheet, and he gasped in horror. He had
breasts, real woman's breasts, which rose magnificently as
he heaved in exertion, pulling against his restraints.
"What have you done to me?"
She slid a mirror up to the side of the bed and tilted it
so he could see. "The papers that you signed gave me your
consent to perform surgery on you. Those are breast
implants. A very simple procedure for a plastic surgeon,
which I happen to be." Lifting his head, he panicked as he
tried to see his genitals.
"Don't worry, you are still intact below the waist - for
the moment. You see, those breasts will be perfectly
capable of nursing a baby, once we fill you up with female
hormones." She produced a hypodermic syringe, and stabbed
it in one of his cheeks.
He struggled furiously against his restraints. "Why me?"
"I don't know why you came to me. From your shaved legs and
chest, I have deduced that you are a closet crossdresser.
Perhaps you found my role reversal experiment exciting. I
doubt if you anticipated the full extent of what I have
planned for you."
"Let me out of here! I have a family!"
"Which you have already disavowed. You should have told me
the truth about yourself before you signed those papers.
Now it is much too late."
"You crazy bitch! I'll kill you for this!"
"I don't think so. Soon, you will be docile as a lamb.
Castration tends to do that to a man."
"Oh my God! No!"
"If that was a prayer, it is not going to help you. But I
am not without mercy. As I said, your new breasts will be
fully functional. And I would not want to deprive you of
the joys of motherhood. Although you will never be able to
bear a child, you may want to suckle your genetic
offspring."
"You must be insane! Let me out of here. Please, let me
go!"
She ignored the interruption. "You see, my little
experiment requires that we preserve a quantity of your
sperm in case you decide later to raise your own child.
Prepare for your last male orgasm."
Before Pat could react, she implanted a large tube on his
penis. It was attached to wires and a rubber hose, and as
she switched it on, he realized that it was some kind of
milking device. It was the same nightmare scenario that he
had masturbated to in his hotel room the night before. The
horror story that had titillated him was coming true, only
now there would be no escape.
Just like the hapless character in the Internet story, Pat
began to harden as the machine sucked on him. Over and
over, he was pulled and stroked, and through the horror of
it, he became aroused as his body instinctively readied to
ejaculate. As Pat knew she would, the mad surgeon produced
a slender wand, which she greased and inserted in his ass.
Probing for his prostate gland, she found it and the wand
began to vibrate. The combined effect of milking his penis
and massaging his prostate made him delirious, and he
started to scream as he approached a devastating climax.
***
Three months later, Patricia Summers awoke in her cheap
hotel room and prepared herself for the day ahead.
A light December snow was falling on the Chicago rooftops
visible from her room. With a sigh, she removed her
dressing gown and surveyed herself in the mirror. The
removal of Pat's testicles by Dr. Frankenwiener a few
moments after he ejaculated into the milking device had
greatly accelerated the feminization process, and the
hormone therapy had done the rest. Pat was now,
anatomically, a complete female.
Emotionally and mentally, she was something else entirely.
Neither male nor female, a lost soul, as surely as if she
had died in her hotel room three months ago in New York. As
far as the world was concerned, that is what had happened
to Patrick Summers that day, and she intended to keep it
that way. Better to be remembered as a dead hero than to be
revealed as an unwilling transsexual.
After a quick shower in the grungy hotel tub, Pat went
through the motions of dressing and putting on her makeup.
When she was a man, this had always been exciting. Now it
would be her daily routine for the rest of her life, and
the prospect bored her. She slipped into a pair of cotton
panties and strapped a bra around her fine breasts. After
blow-drying her hair and combing it into an attractive
shag, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on a pair
of pantyhose. A slip and a white uniform dress followed,
and she stepped into a pair of flats before standing at the
dresser mirror and applying lipstick and mascara. A few
final flourishes, and she was ready to face the world.
As she buttoned up her inexpensive overcoat, she surveyed
herself again in the mirror. A handsome woman, people would
say, not beautiful, but pretty. Not that it mattered. Pat
was utterly unattracted to men, and incapable of sexual
arousal in any case. Whether Dr. Frankenwiener had botched
that aspect of Pat's operation, or whether she was wired
differently from other transsexuals, orgasm was quite
impossible. She still found women attractive, but her
inability to do anything about it only added to her
frustration.
She walked out onto State Street and turned north towards
the Gold Coast. Her wife and daughter, flush with insurance
money, had moved into a smart new townhouse, and Pat had a
few minutes before her shift to try to catch a glimpse of
them. Although she had fantasized about it many times, she
had no intention of coming back from the dead. Better they
remember Patrick Summers as he was.
Perhaps Pat's wife might have accepted Patricia, and they
could have lived together as sisters. But then the
insurance money would be gone, and they would have to live
together in poverty. Pat's bus trip from New York to
Chicago, and the three days it had taken her to land a job
as a waitress, had been a rude enough shock, and she could
not bring herself to subject her family to public
humiliation and take away their financial security.
Pat got to the place a few minutes early, and brushed the
light snow off a park bench before sitting down. Crossing
her legs, she reached into her purse and removed a
cigarette, a vice, which she had reacquired following her
escape from Dr. Frankenwiener. As she inhaled and waited
for the nicotine rush, she closed her eyes and thought back
over the horror of the past three months: the agonizing
recovery from castration and reconstructive surgery, the
prolonged period of lethargy while her body adapted to the
loss of testosterone and flood of female hormones, and the
slow changes as the estrogen took hold, gradually weakening
her muscles as it reshaped her body.
Weakened though she was, she had still had the strength to
murder Dr. Frankenwiener, strangling her with a nylon
stocking. Pat had managed to escape her restraints and
surprise the doctor when she returned to the apartment from
a shopping trip. A thorough search of the apartment had
yielded slightly over one thousand dollars in cash, and the
new identification documents, which the doctor had
apparently intended to provide Patricia Summers at the
conclusion of her experiment. All of the doctor's notes,
and any trace of Patrick Summers, were now at the bottom of
the East River.
Pat had scraped together a small wardrobe, replacing the
sex kitten costumes and sissy maid outfits favored by the
doctor, and bought a bus ticket for Chicago. By the time
the police found Dr. Frankenwiener's body, Pat was long
gone. With her remaining money, she had been able to rent a
single room at a cheap hotel, and finally secure employment
at a restaurant in Lincoln Park. It was going to be a
dismal existence, but at least she was close to her wife
and daughter, and would occasionally be able to see them
from afar.
A black limousine pulled up to the curb, and Pat sat
perfectly still as the occupants emerged onto the sidewalk
in front of her daughter's new, exclusive preschool. There
she was, Pat's lovely daughter, followed by her mother,
looking extremely attractive in her full-length sable coat.
Then a third person, a handsome man, followed them out of
the limousine. Pat stared in shock as the man took the
little girl's hand, and put his arm around her mother.
The three of them walked into the school as Pat Summers
finished her cigarette. Then she got up from the bench, and
walked slowly to her bus stop.
Stevie
- 25.07.2022
- 20
- 0
Foreign Exchange Yet another Dental Care sequel
- 3 years ago
- 44
- 0
Joanna s First Gynecological Exam The Sequel
- 3 years ago
- 52
- 0
