The Syndicate free porn video

A foreword: This is a sequel, of sorts, to my previous (and first) story "Alaina." Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. This story may not be re-posted without the permission of the author. THE SYNDICATE By Lana B. PROLOGUE A lot can happen in three years. I know. Just ask me. For it was just three short years ago today that I led a completely different life than the one I lead now. I'm not exactly complaining, I suppose, because I'm happy with the way things turned out. But over the last year or so, I've heard a number of things from some reliable people that give me a pretty good idea of what happened to me. Well, I guess I already knew what happened to me, so maybe I should say that now I know why it happened to me. And I have to say that the reasons are quite shocking. I also have to say that I'm a little disappointed in a few people who I consider to be my friends. Some people who I even love. They told me one thing and did another. They even lied to me to advance their own agenda. But I won't hold any grudges. What's the sense? What's done is done. And besides, like I said before, I'm happy with the way things turned out. I guess I'm starting to prattle. You're probably wondering what the hell I'm talking about. Maybe I should just tell my story. Three years ago... PART ONE: THE FANTASY As I rolled the nude pantyhose up each smooth, shapely leg, I delighted in its silky touch against my soft skin. I took extra care to avoid creating a run with my long, red nails. I secured the pantyhose around my thin waist, and turned my attention to capturing my size 36C breasts in the comfortable silk bra. I slipped into my favorite outerwear, a yellow cotton sundress that perfectly accentuated my hourglass figure. I now stepped into matching three-and-a-half inch leather pumps, which brought out the best in my fine legs. Then I sat down at the vanity to check my makeup, making minor repairs to my mascara and lipstick. I walked to the closet door, opened it, and gazed at my reflection in the full-length mirror on the door's rear side. What I saw was a pretty woman in her mid twenties, about five-foot-nine in heels and one hundred and twenty or so pounds in weight. Time to go, I thought, and I headed towards the door. I reached for the knob... From a dead sleep, I awoke and sat bolt upright, heart pounding, skin drenched with perspiration. What was I thinking, actually going out in public looking like that? I gazed at the alarm clock on the nightstand; it was only 3:15am. I wasn't scheduled to get up for another four hours to get ready for work. I headed for the bathroom to relieve myself and to take a quick shower. After I stepped out of the shower and towelled myself dry, I went to the closet, pulled out my bathrobe, and put it on. I changed the sweat-laden bed sheet, sat down on the bed, back resting against the headboard. Then I thought about the dream and that put me in a mood of despair. My name was Bill Greene, a 28-year-old single male who lived and worked in New York City as an accountant at a mid-town firm by the name of Holder & Sons. They employed about 100 people, 45 of whom were accountants. For as long as I could remember, I've had fantasies of dressing in women's clothes. I did not want to have these thoughts, but the plain fact of the matter was that I had them. Until recently, I hadn't acted them out, at least not since I was 12 or 13 years old when I tried on some of my mother's dresses. I'd been able to satisfy my tendencies by reading crossdressing fiction on the Internet or by renting an occasional video at the adult video store, but lately the urges had intensified to a level of personal participation. I'd hoped that these urges would dissipate and eventually disappear as I grew older but, conversely, to my dismay they only became stronger. Just a month earlier I shoplifted a set of plastic press-on fingernails at a local supermarket, and four or five times since, I'd put them on, gazing at my feminine looking hands. I marvelled and felt aroused at how womanly my hands looked with the long red nails. I shoplifted the nails simply because I was too embarrassed to buy them. I would have found it humiliating to confront a cashier with a purchase like that. In the recesses of my mind, I realized that I was subjecting myself to prosecution, possible loss of job, and everything that entails, which I guess illustrates my embarrassment over buying women's paraphernalia and the extent to which I was willing to go to get them. Similarly, it usually took me hours to build up the courage to rent a crossdressing video from the local adult video store. I tried to rationalize that these types of movies were tame compared to some of the other videos rented there, and that the store's employees probably couldn't care less. However I still found it nerve-wracking when crunch-time came and I handed the video to the cashier to make payment. Which is why, I suppose, I found the dream so terrifying. While for me it was one thing to fantasize about dressing up, it was quite another thing to go out in public looking like that. These fantasies were obviously a part of me I could not discard, as much as I may have wanted to, but they were personal, not to be shared, and certainly not to be viewed by others. What I found somewhat ironic about all this was that I was happy being a male. I enjoyed having sex with women, and had had a number of lengthy, satisfying relationships with girls. In fact, for the last six months or so, I was dating a beauty by the name of Trish Wilder. She was a clerical worker from another accounting firm a few buildings down from Holder & Sons. We'd met at a hotdog stand across the street from work during lunchtime. We'd already had good sex at least a dozen times, and we enjoyed each other's company. It was even possible that we could get serious soon, if we had not already reached that point. So there was no questioning my masculinity, which was a great relief as I certainly wasn't gay. Nor was I a transsexual, someone who desired to become a member of the opposite sex, although it did not escape my attention that in my dream I actually was a woman, not a man dressed as a woman. I quickly dismissed that thought from my mind and considered that in fact, I was simply a crossdresser or transvestite, someone who just enjoyed dressing in the clothing of the opposite sex. A relatively harmless vice, I thought, yet still not so benign that I would entrust the information to another soul. I also thought that it still was possible that I could outgrow it in the future, although, I reflected, could one outgrow a habit or vice like this at twenty-eight years of age? Was it the same thing as smoking or drinking, something that could be conquered, or was there no hope at all I would ever shed this embarrassing past time of mine? I looked at the clock and saw that it was 7am. Where had the time gone? I realized that it was time to get ready for work so I walked to the closet, opened the door, and noticed, with relief, that only my shirts, suits and ties hung there. Not that I expected to find dresses and skirts on the hangers, but psychologically, it reinforced my male ego. As per usual, I dressed in a suit, the expected attire for my position at the firm. I looked at my reflection in the full-sized mirror, and saw a rather handsome, dapper guy staring back. At five-foot six-inches tall I was somewhat short for a full-grown man, but I worked out at the local gym a few times a week and had been able to build up some muscle tone. Last week, I topped the scales at 155 pounds, which was a record high for me. I also had Enzo, the local shoemaker, put some lifts on all my shoes, which helped. As Trish was also the same height as me at least I looked taller than her with the lifts. Although we never talked about it I think she must have sensed my self-consciousness over my height since she never wore heels in my presence. I know how much women love to wear heels and I'd seen several pairs in her closet, yet she refrained. That was another thing that appealed to me about her. Her consideration for the feelings of others, something that was in short supply in this city. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror again, and somehow conjured up an image of me in a pair of Trish's four-inch leather pumps. This thought utterly disgusted me and I ejected it from my mind. I approached the door and reached for the knob. This time I did not wake up in horror, but simply opened the door, locked it behind me, and headed off to work. PART TWO: THE ADVERTISEMENT Work that day was a bore. I prepared tax returns for three of Holder & Sons' clients. Not the most exciting of jobs but it was a living. I'd been working there for four years now and my annual salary was up to $45,000. In another four years, I could be up to $65,000, which I thought wasn't too bad. I could do even better if I took and passed the CPA exam. That was something to which I'd recently been giving some serious thought. When 5:00pm finally arrived, I clocked out. The office was only about ten blocks from my rent- controlled apartment that allowed me to walk home, provided the weather was nice. Since it was late summer, I'd been walking home for the last few months, except on days when it rained hard and I took the subway. It was a beautiful day and I started my walk home. About three blocks from the office I noticed Waldos, a new adult bookstore which had just opened, so I wandered in. Against my better judgement, I made my way over to the transgender section and gazed at some of the magazine covers. One of the covers immediately caught my attention: "The Transgenderist." Underneath the title was a descriptive subtitle: "The Magazine For Dignified Transgenderists Everywhere." The cover boasted contents described as reflective essays, tasteful photos, and contemplative fiction. This edition's cover story was "Ten Ways To Tell If Your Lover Is A Crossdresser." The magazine looked interesting, almost like a Cosmopolitan for crossdressers, and I picked up a copy and made my way toward the cashier. I felt my usual embarrassment but forced myself to be calm as I handed over a $10 bill to the cashier and waited for my $2 change. Of course, the cashier was out of singles and had to call the manager for a stack of dollar bills, prolonging my agony. Finally, I got my change and made my way back home. As I walked the streets, I thought about how I would spend my evening. Trish was in Connecticut visiting her sick grandmother, so I would watch television, and perhaps read this new "dignified" magazine I'd just bought. I walked into my apartment building, got in the elevator and took it up to my floor. I unlocked the door to my apartment, threw a TV dinner into the oven and while it cooked, took a shower to wash off the city's grime. After I finished the rather tasteless meal I turned on the television. It took me exactly five minutes to determine that nothing of any value was on so I picked up my new magazine. I began to review its contents and then examined some of the photos. They actually were tasteful, revealing fully clothed transsexuals and crossdressers. The sprouting genitalia I'd seen in some of the other magazines I viewed were nowhere to be found. In fact, most if not all of the models really looked like women, not like obvious drag queens. After viewing the pictures, I started to look for an interesting article or story to read. Then an advertisement caught my eye. It implored the reader to visit or contact "The Transgender Institute (a/k/a TGI)" - a concern that professed to provide full services to the transgender community in New York City. I noticed that they had an address on 57th Street off Third Avenue. Shit, I thought, that's only three blocks away from the office. My eyes by now were getting tired so I put the magazine down and turned my attention back to the television. Some network movie of the week succeeded in putting me to sleep in fifteen minutes. Three hours later, I awoke, took off my clothes and got in bed. Thankfully, I had an uneventful, dreamless sleep. When lunchtime arrived the next day, I made it down to street level and debated whether to have a hotdog or pizza. My mind kept on thinking about the magazine and the advertisement for TGI. I decided to skip lunch, at least for now, and headed over to 57th Street. After about ten minutes of walking I found the building. It looked like TGI occupied the entire 20 stories as there was no other name but The Transgender Institute over the entrance. I walked through the entrance and continued towards a receptionist. She was a pretty young thing with a nametag that read "Michelle." I found myself wondering whether Michelle was a real girl. She certainly looked like one but after seeing some of those pictures in the magazine anything was possible. I asked her if she had any literature I could view. She smiled, reached down, removed a thick pamphlet from a drawer and handed it to me. I thanked her, placed the pamphlet in my inside breast pocket and headed back outside. Very dignified, but as usual I felt nervous and somewhat embarrassed. That night at home, I sat on my couch with the television on for background noise as I looked at the pamphlet. I was impressed because TGI offered moral support, psychiatric counselling and medical intervention to transsexuals. TGI actually provided all of the services required for transsexuals to make the successful transition to the opposite sex. In the more common male-to-female conversions, TGI provided a new wardrobe for the client, hormonal therapy to cultivate secondary sexual characteristics, and beard and hair removal. They even found jobs for their clients. That way the client could fulfil the requirement of living and working as a woman for the required period of time before crossing the last bridge: complete sexual reassignment surgery. Of course TGI also provided that service. Not only that, but for the entire period of time that it took to complete the process, TGI actually put the client up in a cosy one-bedroom apartment located in its own building. While all this was much too drastic for my personal needs, I noticed in the Table of Contents that TGI offered alternative, less severe services for crossdressers. People like me who simply liked to indulge in a little dressing up. I frowned at that idea but I couldn't help but read on. What they offered was called "TV Weekends and Vacations." This was further described as a weekend, or a vacation of anywhere from one to three weeks, where the client stayed at TGI and received the full crossdressing treatment in a dignified manner. There was that word dignified again. For a set price, depending on the length of stay, the client would, by appearance only, be converted from male to female. The client would not venture out in public but would remain within the closed, structured environment of TGI to protect his or her privacy and confidentiality. That sounded right up my alley. TGI's rather closed environment contained such entertainment as underground malls, movie theaters and nightclubs. The literature also pointed out that for the fitness-conscious, a wide array of indulgences were available such as swimming pools, tennis and racquet ball courts, and exercise and weight rooms. I just couldn't get that pamphlet out of my mind and a few days later, I revisited TGI after work. I told the receptionist I was thinking about buying one of the vacations described in the pamphlet and she said I would need to talk to an agent. She picked up the phone, discussed the matter with someone and directed me to see a Ms. Wilkins in Room 105. I made my way past Michelle and quickly found the room. I knocked twice, and a voice invited me to enter. There I saw a gorgeous brunette (woman?) sitting behind an oak desk bearing a nameplate that read "Pamela Wilkins." We introduced ourselves and after some hemming and hawing I verbalized my interests. Pamela easily noticed my discomfort and attempted to put me at ease. She told me, "You've nothing to be ashamed of. What you want is nothing unusual. Anyone who thinks that there is anything degenerate about your interest is the one with the problem, not you." Then she added, "Let me tell you something else I don't ordinarily tell new clients. Five years ago, I was a man. Thanks to TGI, I was able to become the person I always wanted to be and deep down inside, the person I really was. I am eternally grateful to this institute and I'm sure that it can give you the same happiness it has given me." I was shocked at this information, and blurted, "Wow, I would never have guessed that you weren't born a woman, you're so beautiful. If I didn't already have a girlfriend, I'd ask you out myself." Pamela thanked me for the compliment, and responded, "Well, maybe some day we could go out." We both laughed and I have to admit she'd succeeded in putting me at ease. After some more talk I ultimately purchased a one-week vacation for August, the precise week to be determined by me at a later date. The price was a steep $2,500 but I rationalized that I would spend that much if I went to Bermuda or Mexico for a week, so I decided it was worth the cost.. As I wrote the check, Pamela said, "Remember, TGI is here to fulfil all of your transgender needs. You will always get what you want from TGI." What she didn't tell me was that sometimes, TGI gave its clients a little more than what they wanted. I got up and left, thinking I'd found heaven on earth. PART THREE: THE VACATION I selected the week of August 20th for my vacation at TGI and making the arrangements had been easier than I expected. I requested vacation leave from my supervisor, Mr. Roth, and one day later he notified me that he'd approved the request. As for Trish, her grandmother had taken a turn for the worse and she stayed at her side in Connecticut, having received a family hardship leave-of-absence from work. I consoled Trish by phone once every two or three days. She was especially close to her grandmother and it sounded like she didn't have long to go. I lied to Trish that the week of August 20th, I would be at Holder & Sons' Kansas City office to prepare tax returns for one of the company's big shot Midwest clients. The wheels were set in motion. That night, sorting through my mail, I noticed a letter from TGI. My heart began to race as I opened it. TGI's president and director of operations, Dr. Alfred Pendrake, advised that the institute was looking forward to my arrival on August 20. I should not bring with me anything other than personal hygiene items, such as my toothbrush and shaving kit. And that if I had any questions to contact my TGI agent, Pamela Wilkins. The days raced by and finally, August 20 arrived. I packed a small overnight bag with some toiletries and personal effects. Other than the clothes on my back and my wallet, the bag was all I brought, pursuant to the letter's instructions. I headed out the door and a forty-minute walk brought me to the entrance of TGI. For better or worse, I walked in to be confronted by the lovely Michelle at the reception desk, who greeted me with a pleasant smile. "Good morning, Mr. Greene, we've been expecting you." That said, she handed me a questionnaire to fill out, which inquired about things such as height, weight, shoe size, shirt and pant size, and other like matters. I completed the form and handed it over to Michelle, who, as she had done on my last visit, directed me to Ms. Wilkins' office. I took the familiar walk, knocked on Room 105 again and Pamela invited me in. "Hello, Bill, it's nice to see you again. Welcome back to TGI," she merrily exclaimed from behind her oak desk. She arose, walked over to me, took my hands in hers, and affectionately kissed my cheek, as if we had been friends for years. 'Man, I could really go for this chick,' I thought, and then remembered that this "chick" used to be a man like myself, although you would never believe that by looking at her now. Even her voice sounded totally feminine. 'How in the world had they achieved that?' I wondered, considering the possibility that Pamela may have lied. Perhaps she was really a biological female, an idea I liked a lot better than Pamela's story. Pamela handed me my room key and said the first thing I needed to do was to go to my room. I was to shower and shave. She told me that in the bathroom I would find a toothpaste-like tube of something called TGI body cream. She explained that this was a hair removal substance that I should apply liberally over my entire body. After waiting for about 15 minutes I was to rinse it all off in the shower. Pamela said that after I was done with all of that, I should report to the "M/O Room" on the mezzanine, whatever that was. "If you need anything at all, and I do mean anything, please call me. Just dial 105 on your phone to reach me, day or night," she said. "Thanks," I replied, and I headed for my room. I looked at my key, which identified Room 425 as my next destination. I found the elevator bank and took an elevator up to the fourth floor. I quickly located Room 425 and unlocked the door. I walked in and favorably viewed my living quarters for the next week. Off to the side was a kitchenette with a small table, refrigerator and range. That was the only small room in the apartment, though. The hallway opened to a large living room that had to be at least four hundred square feet. I viewed a large couch, a loveseat, and two reclining chairs, as well as an entertainment center with a 35" television and a nice-looking sound system. I walked into the large bedroom, which sported a king-sized bed with plenty of room to spare. I looked in the closet, which was completely empty and then I checked out the bathroom. I noticed the tube labeled TGI body cream that Pamela had mentioned on the shelf. I remembered her instructions and then fetched my bag. I removed my razor and shaved my face. This took me only five minutes or so, since I'd shaved the night before and I had an extremely light beard. I was lucky that I could go two or even three days without shaving and for that matter, I didn't have that much body hair either. In any event, I stripped and began to apply the cream all over my body as directed. Then looking at the wall clock I watched the time pass. Five minutes elapsed and I began to feel a tingling sensation. Another five minutes and the tingling intensified. After twelve minutes the sensation became almost unbearable. I forced myself to wait the full fifteen minutes and then darted into the shower. The tingling dissipated as the cream rinsed off, taking with it my body hair. I looked in the tub as I dried myself and saw a mass of hair caught in the drain. I didn't realize I even had that much hair. I then looked at my hairless legs, arms and torso, which appeared smooth looking. I touched my chest and legs with my hands and felt the difference. I even noticed the difference as I walked and felt the air whisper over my smooth skin. That cream really achieved its goal. I put my jeans, T-shirt and sneakers back on, and headed out to the M/O Room, as instructed by Pamela. Taking the elevator down to the mezzanine, I learned from a wall directory that "M/O" meant makeover. The directory identified the M/O Room as Room 200 so I searched around for a minute or so until I found it. I walked into the room, and was greeted by Olga. She was an older-looking woman with her gray hair in a bun. "Mr. Greene? We've been expecting you. It's time to have your breast forms applied," she nonchalantly exclaimed. "Breast forms? No one said anything about any breast forms!" I replied, almost in a state of shock. "I'm not even sure what breast forms are!" "Calm down, Mr. Greene. Breast forms are only simulated breasts made of a silicon-like substance that gives you the appearance of having real breasts. They're attached to your chest with a temporary glue and are easily removable. If you don't like them, we can take them off but I would advise against that. They will make you look, and to an extent feel like a woman." She calmed me down some with that statement. "Besides you've paid for this service. Please give it a chance, I'm willing to bet you'll like them," she said reassuringly. This calmed me down a little more and I told her, "Okay, I'll give it a chance, but if I don't like them, off they go." "That's all I'm asking," she said and told me to follow her. We walked into a "fitting room," and she asked me to sit on a table, similar to a doctor's examining table, complete with that coarse tissue paper. She removed a set of breasts from a box, holding them up against my chest, examining how I looked. "I think these will do nicely. They are size B and fit your frame well. What do you think?" I was too embarrassed to even look and I just said, "They seem okay." She responded, "Good then, let's attach them." With that, she put on a pair of plastic gloves and opened a jar of some sweet smelling gelatin substance. She asked me to remove my tee-shirt and she began to smear the stuff on my smooth chest. She then held the breast forms up and placed them directly onto my chest. She manoeuvred them into position and asked me to lie down to allow them to dry and settle into a fixed position. After about fifteen minutes, she said the glue had dried and I could sit up again. She then began to apply some type of flesh-colored cream around the edges of the forms to camouflage the areas where they ended and my chest began. "You know, some people think I'm a real artist. Wait until you see this. You'll almost believe that these are real breasts." She worked for another twenty minutes, applying the cream, rubbing, smoothing-out, molding and manipulating. Finally, she said, "Finished, honey, have a look-see." I stood up from the table and nervously peered downward at my chest. I could not believe my eyes- I had breasts! Two of them with a deep cleavage! They looked so real! I got dizzy from excitement or embarrassment, I'm not sure which, and reeled backwards. Luckily, the table was right there to stop my progress, and I hopped back onto it so I could collect myself. "See, I told you you'd like them," Olga stated, obviously proud of her handiwork. "What do you think?" she asked. "Unbelievable," was all that I could get out. "I'll take that as a compliment." I finally calmed down and stepped off the table. I took a few steps and felt the breasts tug and sway. I walked over to a wall mirror and gazed at my reflection. There was no doubt about it. I had tits, and nice looking ones at that. I reached up and touched them. Although I naturally could feel no sensation I did notice that they were firmly attached and that they would not easily come off. "Don't worry, we have a special solvent that dissolves the glue, so that when we're ready to remove the forms, it will be easily done," Olga said. "Here, I think you'll need this," she added as she handed me a cotton bra. She helped me put it on and I once again peered downward, now seeing only cleavage in the center of my covered twin peaks. I was beginning to get aroused and I returned my gaze upward to save any embarrassment. I grabbed my T-shirt and put it back on. Looking down again, I saw how the two pointed peaks pushed the tee-shirt outward, making me look sexy. "My work is done here," Olga said. "Follow me. Let's do your nails." We went through an inner door to another room and I gazed at a full manicure kit on a low table near a comfortable looking chair, where Olga directed me to sit. "I think red is a nice color for you. What do you think?" she asked. "Red is okay," I agreed "Then red it shall be," she said and proceeded to get to work. She applied extensions, she filed, she buffed and she filed some more. She applied an undercoat, several coats of red polish, and a clear topcoat. She did a little more filing and was now inspecting the job for any possible flaws. Satisfied, she proclaimed, "Now, let's do your toenails." Fifteen minutes later, my toenails matched my fingernails, and Olga proclaimed, "Finished, at last." I held my hands out at arm's length in front of me and gazed at them. My nails looked absolutely gorgeous. The tips exceeded the ends of my fingers by at least a quarter of an inch. They were contoured into a beautiful oval shape and shone bright red. I couldn't take my eyes off them. "You have such small, soft hands," Olga said, breaking my near-trance. "A shame you were not born a woman." I believe I may have blushed at that remark. "We are almost finished," she said. "Just some makeup and we're done. Nothing too fancy, just the basics. I'll be right back. In the meantime take off your clothes." While that request seemed a little odd, I suppose I'd reached the point where I didn't question her directives so I began taking my few garments off. I immediately had to adjust the angle at which I positioned my hands to compensate for the new, longer nails. I figured I would have to make similar adjustments to perform any other tasks that required me to use my hands. Olga returned with a makeup case and a paper bag and said, "Remove the boxer shorts too." I complied, and she reached into the bag and took out a pair of white panties that matched my bra. She handed them to me and I put them on. She then handed me a pink silk robe and a pair of pink, toeless fluffy slippers. Without any further instruction, I donned the robe and slippers. I looked downward and noted how my red toenails peeked out from the front of the pink slippers. "Please sit down," Olga commanded, and I did. "This will not take long. We are almost done." She was right because after about twenty minutes or so, she'd completed putting on my new and improved face. A little foundation, mascara, eyebrow pencil, and red lipstick were all applied. I wanted to look in the mirror to assess the final product but Olga asked me to wait, she just had one more thing to do. She left the room and returned about a minute later with a dark blond wig in her hands. "The finishing touch," Olga stated as she secured the wig on my head. It felt nice and snug. "Okay," she said, "Go have a look." I walked over to the full-length mirror and gazed at my reflection. I could not believe my eyes as I saw a full- body reflection of a woman. Not a beautiful woman, but definitely one I would describe as "good looking." The makeup certainly helped, as did the long blond wig, which cascaded onto my shoulders. I reflected that no amount of cosmetics or prosthetics could turn tin into gold; underneath it all I was still a man, for which I was quite thankful. But I sure did look like a girl, I considered, unable to turn away from the mirror. "Time to go back to your room to get dressed," Olga said, breaking my thoughts. "Clothes have been placed in your room while you were here. I'll keep your male clothes here for you. They'll be returned to you when you leave TGI." "Okay, sure, thanks, see you later," I stammered, still stunned by my changed appearance. I walked towards the exit of the M/O Room, noticing an overhead sign that read "No Tips Allowed." I somehow made it back to my room. Inspection of the bedroom closet revealed that it now contained about ten dresses, presumably in my proper size. On the closet floor were five pairs of high-heeled shoes, in various colors. They were all pumps, they were high quality leather, and they were sexy-looking. The dresser drawers had been filled with bras and panties. They were both in cotton and the more frilly silk lace type. There were ten or more pairs of tan pantyhose. On the vanity were cosmetics including lipstick, mascara, and several bottles of nail polish in different colors. A jewelry case was there too, containing several pair of clasp-on earrings and a gold necklace and matching bracelet. Opening the vanity's drawer revealed combs, brushes, perfumes, and a feminine looking wristwatch. Obviously someone had been busy in here while I'd been getting my makeover. What should I do first? I strolled over to the wall mirror and looked at myself. I really appeared quite feminine. The smooth skin on my face, the red lips and the pretty blond hair framing my face all made me look quite pretty. Probably what I would look like if I'd been born a girl, I considered. I slipped the robe and bra off to gaze at my breasts. Incredible, I thought, they looked so real. Olga really was an artist. I pulled myself away from the mirror and went to the dresser. I felt my breasts swaying and tugging at my chest as I moved. I opened a drawer and chose a matching set of black lace panties and bra. I put them on and noticed a soft interior mesh on the front of the panties that flattened my bulge. I next grabbed a pair of the nude pantyhose and I rolled them up each smooth leg, being careful to avoid snagging them with my new long nails. I secured them around my waist and walked to the mirror to see how they looked. They felt great and looked even better. I'd never worn pantyhose before but I thought that I could become addicted to them fast. The sensation I felt as my legs brushed against each other was nothing less than delightful. And my legs had the same finished, shapely look that I'd so admired when I gazed at women with nice-looking legs. I thought the next thing to do was to put on a dress so I walked over to the closet to survey the selection. I settled on a silver and black silk floral print number. I slipped it over my head, pulled it down and reached behind me, groping for the zipper. I finally grasped it and pulled it up. It was now time to choose a pair or shoes. I selected the black leather pumps since they matched my dress. The heels looked to be about three-and-a-half inches high, so I tried to be careful, never having walked in heels before. I read somewhere that the trick was to take small steps and to place the toe and heel on the ground together so I tried those tactics, which seemed to work. I carefully walked back over to the mirror for a look at the finished product and I was astonished. I had to admit that I looked pretty good. In fact, I would have had no hesitation in dating a girl that looked as pretty as I looked right now. My breasts pushed the dress out in front and made my waist appear small. My legs looked silky smooth, ending in those black pumps that made them appear so shapely. I nearly passed out from the excitement of gazing at my feminine-looking reflection, and slowly and carefully made my way over to the couch. I sat down and crossed my legs at the thighs. I couldn't help but look again at my legs and shoes, which had such an ultra-feminine appearance. I couldn't believe that they were attached to my body and that they were mine. I intently gazed at my hands, at my fingers capped by the long red nails. I thought again, 'How could these be mine?' I looked at the wall clock and noticed it was 4:30pm. I was getting hungry, having not eaten anything since the cup of coffee and English muffin I'd had for breakfast back at my apartment. I slowly walked to the kitchenette, carefully trying to master the new experience of moving about in those heels. I was very conscious of the light bouncing of my simulated breasts as I took each step and of how I swayed my derriere, which could not be helped. I opened the small refrigerator and saw two cans of tuna, a container of orange juice, and some milk. I surveyed the kitchen cabinets and found a pound of coffee, a loaf of white bread, a canister of sugar, a package of chocolate chip cookies, and three cans of chilli. None of this would qualify as a decent dinner so I grabbed a couple of cookies to temporarily alleviate my hunger pangs and walked back to the couch. I sat down on the sofa and thought that I would really like to go out. I could explore this little universe and perhaps catch a bite to eat in the bargain. But I felt that I would be embarrassed to be seen like this. I'd never even fully dressed up like this in the privacy of my own home. To venture out in public all dolled up seemed out of the question. On the other hand, I considered that I was among "peers," not strangers. TGI was a closed environment and many others I would encounter "out there" would also be crossdressers. It might be interesting to view others like me, if for nothing else than comparison purposes. I might even meet some people and make friends, who knows? Then again, even under normal circumstances, I hated to go out alone. I couldn't decide what to do. I gazed at my hands again, and smiled. How feminine they looked, with the hairless skin and the sculpted red nails. I looked at the clock; it was now 5pm. 'What's a girl to do?' I thought and just then, the phone rang, startling the hell out of me. As I reached for the receiver, I wondered who it could be. "Hello, Bill. This is Pamela Wilkins." "Hi, Pamela, how are you?" I said. "I'm fine, Bill. Listen, I was wondering, I'm not really doing anything tonight and if you don't have any plans or anything, I thought you might like to join me for dinner. I know a nice little Italian restaurant I'm sure you would like. What do you say?" "It's funny you called about that, Pamela, I was just considering whether to venture out to grab a bite to eat, but I was thinking that I might find it too embarrassing." "Why would you find it embarrassing?" Pamela asked. "I don't know, I never really went out all dressed up, that's all, I guess," I managed to say. "Aw c'mon, Bill, you're amongst friends here, people like you and me. You'll have fun. Give yourself a break. Think of it as a girl's night out." She sounded mighty convincing. Before I could give the matter any further rational thought, I heard the words, "Okay, why not," escape from my mouth. "Great," Pamela said. "Are you dressed?" "Yeah," I replied. "Then why don't you meet me at the mezzanine elevators at 5:30, and we can take it from there, okay?" "Okay, I'm convinced. See you then," I said and rang off. I looked at the clock again and saw it was 5:15. 'I guess I should pee before I go,' I thought and I headed for the bathroom. Something I usually accomplished in thirty seconds took more than five minutes with having to slowly slip off, and put back on the damn pantyhose. I gazed at my face in the mirror and I looked fine except that my lipstick looked a bit faded. So I decided I needed a little freshening up and I headed towards the bedroom and picked a tube of red lipstick off the vanity. I gazed in the mirror and carefully applied the lipstick onto my lips. I pressed my lips together and took a tissue from the dispenser on the vanity and lightly blotted them to remove the excess. I looked in the mirror again. I could see an obvious difference; I definitely looked better with bright red lips. I then reflected that I might need to freshen up my lips later and I should take a tube of the stuff with me. Then, as if by a miracle, it occurred to me that I would need to take a pocketbook with me to carry a few other things I might need. After all, the dress I was wearing didn't have any pockets and I would need to carry a number of other items to maintain my new appearance. I found a black leather handbag on the closet shelf and began filling it with the required items: lipstick, mascara, nail polish, nail file, hairbrush, comb and my wallet. I looked at the clock again and it was 5:25. That reminded me to put on a watch, a slender jewelled affair that took some time to fasten. I looked in the mirror one last time and liked what I saw, but noticed that something was missing. I couldn't think what it was so I scanned the vanity and saw the jewelry case, which made me realize that I needed earrings and a necklace. I removed both from the jewelry case and fitted the necklace around my neck, then I secured the gold-hoop clasp earrings to my earlobes. None of this was particularly easy with my long nails but I was getting better at using them with practice. I once again gazed in the mirror and considered that I now looked complete. Satisfied, I headed out the door, my heart pounding. It was 5:35 as I approached the mezzanine elevator banks and I saw Pamela waiting there. She recognized me right away, which kind of surprised me, and she began waving excitingly. "Hi, Billie," she said, in a not too low voice. She grabbed both of my hands in hers, and kissed me on the cheek. "You look fantastic!" she forcefully exclaimed, which I do believe caused me to blush. "Spin around, let me get a good look at you," she demanded, and before I knew what was happening, she was spinning me around like a top while making looks of obvious approval on her pretty face. It was a miracle I somehow managed to stay on my feet, which I attributed to my careful efforts to master the fine art of ambulating in heels. "You look like a real woman! They did a great job on you!" "Yeah, thanks," I managed to say. Pamela must have sensed my budding embarrassment at her barrage of compliments, and she said, "Aw c'mon, don't get so flustered, enjoy yourself, that's the whole point of it all, isn't it?" I thought about it, and realized that she was right, but before I could say anything, Pamela said, "C'mon, we should really get going, if we don't get there by 6:00, we may have difficulty getting a table." I followed Pamela into one of the elevators and watched as she poked the Underground Level 1 button with the long, silver fingernail of her right forefinger. The elevator came to a stop, the doors opened, and we walked out. There were stores and shops everywhere. I saw a bakery, a gift shop, a newspaper stand, and a shoe repair shop. It reminded me of Penn Station, only cleaner. We passed a Chinese restaurant and a dry cleaner's, and Pamela said, "Here it is." I gazed at a nice looking Italian restaurant that bore the name "Emilio's" over the entrance. We entered. A handsome maitre'd approached us and said, "Good evening, ladies, table for two?" We nodded our assent and he showed us to a table in the rear of the restaurant. He held out the chairs for both of us, as we in turn sat down. "Nice service," I whispered. "Yeah, this is a real class joint," Pamela informed me. A busboy arrived at our table, filled the water glasses, and set out bread and butter. I turned to Pamela and asked, "So, what's the deal with this Underground, is it an exclusive area for members of the transgender community?" "Not really. When TGI purchased this building about ten years ago, it also acquired two levels of underground areas with a number of shops delivering a full variety of goods and services. "You see, the former owner of the building was Lloyds of London. Lloyds discreetly attempted to establish a presence in New York, but had difficulty convincing its employees to accept a transfer here. Apparently, they were concerned about the growing crime rate in the city. To induce its employees to volunteer for transfers, Lloyds then built the Underground to be a self-contained mini-city where all of their employees' needs could be met without the necessity of ever having to set foot on the sidewalks of New York." "Really?" I asked. "Yes. But in the end the experiment was a failure because the company's employees found the arrangement too constricting. Lloyds failed to take into account that people need sunlight and space, not boundaries. Now the areas are, for the most part, frequented by members of the transgender community through their connection to TGI. "You know, at any time, there could be nearly a thousand people staying at the TGI facility? Patients undergoing some form of sexual reassignment therapy, or people like you who are on vacation. The TGI building has over seven hundred apartments for its customers, and there are rarely any vacancies. This all provides a pretty good customer base for the Underground levels here. "But to answer your question, lots of people from the outside also find their way into the Underground areas. They hear the restaurants are excellent and they are curious as to how "the other side" lives. They want to look, observe, and ogle. And they can indulge their secret vices, especially on Level 2, where there are lots of nightclubs, strip joints, and everything that usually goes along with such places." By now, a waiter had made his way to our table. "Are you ladies ready to order?" Pamela responded that she was going to go with the veal Parmesan, and I ordered the same. The waiter then turned to me and asked, "Is the bread satisfactory, Miss?" I replied it was fine, he smiled, I smiled back, and he left. "My, my, you naughty little flirt," Pamela said. "I was not! I was only being polite," I clarified. "Well, maybe so, but I think that guy likes you. If you play your cards right, you may just get yourself a date with him, and if I do say so myself, he's cute!" That made me mad, and I said, "Listen, Pamela, I'm not into that. I'm a guy, and I like girls. I'm not gay. I just like dressing as a girl occasionally, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm heterosexual, okay?" I had stopped Pamela in her tracks. She looked startled, and said, "Gee, I guess I struck a nerve. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to suggest anything about your sexual preference. Just a little girl talk, that's all. No offense meant." She looked genuinely sorry, and I said, "And no offense taken. I just wanted to get that out there." Just as I was wondering whether I had overreacted, Pamela gave me the biggest, warmest smile I'd ever seen, and I could not help but smile back. She then reached for my hand, gave it a squeeze, and I squeezed back. "Friends?" she asked. "Friends," I replied. "Good," she said, adding, "Listen, us girls got to stick together, you know?" We both laughed. The waiter was back with the veal, and he set the dishes down. "Enjoy, ladies." Again, he turned to me and smiled. This time I did not smile back. I did not wish to encourage me. As he left, Pamela said, "See, what did I tell you. He likes you!" I said, "You may be right, but like I said, I'm not into that." Pamela sighed. "He's so cute. Did you get a good look at his ass? What a waste." I countered, "So go make a play for him, don't let me stop you." "Honey, that stud only has eyes for you," Pamela said, resignedly. At that point, we both sampled the veal and concurred that it was delicious. I began to think about the waiter, and asked, "Do you think he's straight and believes I'm a woman, or do you think he's gay and believes I'm a guy dressed as a girl?" "I'm not sure," Pamela replied. She looked me straight in the eyes and said, "You make an awfully convincing woman. The only give-away would be your voice. It's not too resonant, but it certainly sounds more male than female." We both took another bite of our veal, and Pamela added, "You know, you can practice changing your inflection so that you sound more female. I could help you with that. Or another option would be to have a minor surgical procedure to tighten you vocal chords, which bumps your voice up a few octaves. That's what I did." I thought about what she said, and stated, "The surgery is out of the question. As I've said, I only enjoy dressing up. I have no interest in being a woman. I like being a guy, and I need my voice to stay the way it is. But I may take you up on help with changing my inflection for those occasional times that I do dress up." "No problem there, girlfriend, just let me know when and I'll be there," she said. I smiled at her. "Thanks." She smiled back, affectionately. As I looked at her smile, I began to think what a friendly, warm, nice person Pamela was. I was really beginning to like her. For the next few minutes we concentrated on our meals. I kept thinking about what Pamela had said about that vocal chord surgery. I looked up and asked her, "So, before you had the voice surgery, your voice sounded like mine?" Pamela replied, "It was even deeper than yours." I thought about her answer and found it hard to believe. She had such a sweet, melodic voice. A high voice. A woman's voice. I furtively looked at her as she ate. Everything about her screamed female. The pretty oval face with the smooth skin. The pert nose and plush lips. The luxurious black hair crowning her face and falling beyond her shoulders. The slim, tapered fingers capped by the long silver nails. Her magnificent bust and slim waistline, the terrific legs, the way she walked in those four inch high heels. As I thought about all this, I blurted out, "You know, I'm having a hard time believing that you used to be a man. I'm thinking that you really may be a biological woman. You just look too good to be a sex-change." She giggled at that, and said, "Thanks for the compliment, sweetie, but no such luck. I was a man until I was twenty- two. Five years ago, I entered TGI to initiate the change to who I really was, and three years ago, I completed the surgical construction of female genitalia. But that was only the culmination. There were plenty of other procedures that preceded the end-surgery. In addition to the voice procedure, there was the electrolysis, the breast implants, the cosmetic facial surgery, and the hormonal treatments. And don't even get me started on all the dieting needed to keep my weight down to 118 pounds! But it was worth it. And once it was all over, there wasn't much ongoing treatment needed, other than an estrogen booster shot at six-month intervals. That's as harmless as getting a penicillin shot. Of course, I have to periodically dilate my surgically constructed vagina, but getting laid usually takes care of that. I guess you can say that I'm a low-maintenance girl!" I had to laugh at that last remark, and commented, "Okay, I hear you, but you look so good that I still find it hard to believe." As a matter of fact, I thought, she's a lot prettier than any of the girls I ever dated, including Trish. Pamela then said, "If you'd like we can go up to my place later and you can make a personal inspection, although I'm told that only a gynecologist can tell for sure." I said, "Well, I'm not a gynecologist," to which Pamela retorted, "I know, but the offer still stands." I think I may have blushed, and Pamela softly smiled, trying to ease my discomfort. We finished our meals and asked for the check. Pamela insisted on paying, and I relented. As she was signing the credit card slip, I yawned; I did not realize how tired I was. It had been a long day and yet when I looked at my watch it was only 9pm, but it felt like it was 11:30. I said, "I've had a great time, but I think I need to turn in, or else I might fall asleep right before your eyes." Pamela said, "No problem. I need to go to bed early myself. Tomorrow's a big day for me. TGI is taking in five new patients tomorrow morning at 8am and I need to be in the office at six to go over the paperwork." With that, we left the restaurant and headed back towards the elevators. I looked at a number of other women as we strolled, and wondered what sex they really were. I thought that maybe some of them were looking at me and wondering the same thing. That made me immediately stop looking. Pamela said, "My lunch hour is at 12:00. What do you say that tomorrow, we meet for a drink? We can go back to Emilio's, they have a ladies hour at lunchtime on Tuesdays, with a nice buffet." Without giving it any conscious thought, I immediately agreed. We reached the elevators, stepped into one, and Pamela pressed the buttons for the first and fourth floors. The elevator arrived at the first floor and the doors opened. "Remember", Pamela said, "If you need me for anything, just dial 105. Goodnight, Billie, see you tomorrow." She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, managing to catch the corner of my mouth in the process. "Night, Pam," I said as she walked out and the elevator doors closed. As the elevator began its ascent, I wondered about how she called me Billie. 'Well,' I thought, 'She certainly can't use Bill, clearly a man's name, while I'm dressed like this.' I thought some more about Pamela. I really liked her. She seemed like someone I could trust. The elevator arrived at the fourth floor, the doors opened, and I walked to my room. Closing the door behind me, I stepped into my quarters and made my way towards the bedroom. I was having no difficulty at all moving about in the heels. I was not even thinking about how to walk in them. It had almost become second nature. As they say, practice makes perfect. One thing that I did think about, however, was how sexy I felt as I walked in the black pumps. When I reached the bedroom, I put my purse on the bed and walked over to the wall mirror. I still looked pretty good. My lipstick had faded a bit again but other than that, there were no obvious flaws. I stripped down to my bra and panties and went to the bathroom, where I relieved myself and washed the makeup off my face. With some effort, I removed the tight wig. Next, all my underwear came off and I stepped into the shower. Ten minutes later, I was toweling myself dry while listening to the news on the bedroom television. The local weather girl was saying how the next day was going to be a scorcher. A record 100 degrees was a possibility, exacerbated by haze and humidity. 'Hmm,' I thought, 'Maybe I'll try the pool tomorrow.' I lay down on the bed and continued to watch the news. Fifteen minutes later I was sound asleep. I woke up and gazed at the alarm clock on the night-table to see it was 8:15am. Geez, I'd slept for almost 10 hours; I must really have been tired. I went to the bathroom to take care of my personal needs, thinking about what I'd do later that day. I remembered I had the lunch date with Pamela and I also remembered the weather report and wondered whether a bathing suit had been placed in my room. After searching for a few minutes, I found a red one-piece in the back of the bottom dresser drawer. Thank God it was a one-piece because I don't think I could have handled a bikini. I went to the kitchenette, where I made some coffee and toast. I turned on the stereo and tuned in to a light FM station and relaxed as I slowly ate breakfast. Finishing up, I walked to the bedroom vanity and inspected my face. I decided I needed some light makeup that I attended to. I next put the wig back on before slipping into the red bathing suit with just a little difficulty. I walked to the wall mirror and gazed at myself. I looked good in the bathing suit, which revealed just a little cleavage. I noticed how it matched my red lipstick and nail polish. I was making a fashion statement, I thought and that made me giggle. I looked at the printed building directory on the telephone table, which revealed that the pool was on the roof, accessible via a stairway on the twentieth floor. It was just 9:15 when I grabbed a bathroom towel and began my trek to the pool. Ten minutes later I was on the roof, looking at the huge pool before me. It had to be at least one hundred feet long by fifty feet wide. The people at TGI, or perhaps Lloyds, were big-time spenders. Four or five people were already in the pool, and a similar number were sunbathing on cushioned beach loungers that surrounded the pool. I chose to sit on a lounger away from the other people. I lay back and soaked up some sun. When it got too hot, I cooled off by wading in the pool. Although I'm a good swimmer, I was reluctant to get my head wet for fear of damaging the wig. By 10:30 or so, I became a little bored and headed back to my room. Back in my room, I removed the bathing suit and put on a fresh pair of white cotton panties. I noticed that these panties, too, were lined with a soft mesh in front, ostensibly for the purpose of hiding the male bulge by flattening it. I chose a matching cotton bra. I then turned my attention to putting on a fresh pair of pantyhose, an arduous and challenging task. They were on in a few minutes with no runs. No doubt about it, I was getting good at handling and manipulating objects despite having long nails. As with the high heels, I thought, practice makes perfect. I next turned my attention to choosing a dress and scanned the closet. I decided to go with a plain pink cotton dress, which I thought would be appropriate for lunch. I slipped it over my head, pulled up the rear zipper and fastened the thin belt, which flared the dress out a bit more. For shoes I chose three-and-a-half inch white leather pumps. I put on my wristwatch, and noticed that I had 45 minutes to spare. I had nothing to do but put on my face, which shouldn't take that long. I got started and was finished by 11:30. I checked myself in the mirror and I looked pretty good. My pink lipstick matched my dress perfectly but my nails didn't, so I figured out what I could do for the next 20 or so minutes. I reached for the polish remover and tissues, and swabbed off the red nail polish. I noticed how natural my unpainted nails looked. It looked like I'd been given a French manicure and I decided that Olga really was an artist. I picked up an emery board and did a little fine-tuning. Then I grabbed a bottle of pink nail polish and got to work. I finished, waited for the nails to dry, then put on a second coat. After that coat dried, I removed a few overruns with a cue-tip dabbed with polish remover. I held my hands at arm's length and assessed my work. "Excellent", I said, "If I do say so myself." It was 11:55 and there was no time to do my toenails, but it really didn't matter since the shoes I wore were not open-toed. Time to go so I fetched my purse and I was out the door without thinking. Pamela was at the bar waiting for me when I arrived at Emilio's, waving me over with her hand. She gave me a light peck on the cheek as we exchanged greetings. "You look good in that dress," she said. "Yeah? Thanks," I managed. We both sat down on stools. I noticed Pamela was drinking white wine, and I ordered the same. "Hey," she added, "and your nails look good in that color. Very feminine-looking. Did you do them yourself?" "Yeah," I said, again. "Nice job," Pamela continued. "Thanks," I said, blushing slightly. I was starting to get a little embarrassed by all the compliments, but at the same time I was flattered. One thing for sure, though, Pamela certainly was observant. Figuring I would return the compliment, I said, "You don't look too shabby yourself." She was wearing a sleeveless white silk blouse, a tight black leather skirt that ended an inch or two above her knees, and four-inch black leather pumps. Similarly observant, I noticed that she too had done her long nails also. Today they were red, not silver like they were yesterday. The buffet was announced as ready and we walked over and checked it out. Pamela went for a small salad and a cup of pea soup while I took a small portion of egg salad and a cup of chicken noodle soup. We returned to our stools and we chatted about what we'd done that morning. I told her about going to the pool and she told me about checking in TGI's five new pre-operative male-to-female transsexuals. Before we knew it, it was 1pm and Pamela said she had to return to work. That saddened me because I had grown to like her and really enjoyed her company. We paid the cover charge and left the restaurant. As we walked back to the elevators, Pamela said, "Interested in doing the dinner thing again tonight. I don't want to monopolize your time, but I thought if you weren't doing anything else...?" I broke in and said, "Absolutely, I'd love to." "Do you like Chinese food?" she asked. "Sure, who doesn't." "Great. Why don't you meet me at 6:00 at The Fortune Cookie. It's the Chinese restaurant right across from Emilio's." "It's a date," I said. We got in the elevator and went our respective ways. Back in my room, I thought how nice it had been making friends with Pamela. I hoped that when I left in a few days, we could continue to be friends. Good friends were not easy to find. In fact, I thought, besides Trish I hadn't been close to anyone, male or female, for the last six months. I had no close relatives, either. My parents had died four years earlier, tragically within a year of each other, and I had been an only child. So finding good friends was important to me. But giving the matter some additional thought, I figured that it was a little odd how Pamela had attached herself to me. After all, didn't she have a social life of her own before I got here? She was spending virtually all of her free time with me since I arrived at TGI. But she did seem to like me. And I certainly liked her. 'Stop being paranoid,' I told myself. Pamela and I were just two people who were destined to become friends, that's all, and friends like to spend time together. I dismissed the paranoid thoughts and figured I would get some more quality pool time in. I headed for the bedroom to change back into the bathing suit. I spent three hours at the pool, alternating between sunbathing and wading. I found this very relaxing and made a note that I would use the pool on all of my remaining days at TGI, weather permitting. By 4:30pm I was back in my quarters. I'd just put on a fresh pair of white cotton panties and was about to put on a matching bra when I wondered whether my breast forms were holding. I tugged at them and found them completely secure. I didn't think I could have removed them if my life had depended on it. I proceeded to put the bra on and noticed my red toenails. Time for a pedicure, I thought, so I found some cotton balls in the bathroom and put them between my toes. Then I spent the next half-hour filing my toenails and applying pink polish that perfectly matched my fingernails. I then carefully inspected my fingernails and found them in perfect shape so there was no need for repairs there. Next, I carefully rolled a new pair of pantyhose up my legs, and secured them around my waist. On a whim I put on the four-inch black leather pumps and pranced over to the wall mirror. No question about it, I looked and felt very sexy. It was time to pick out a dress so I walked to the closet and scanned its contents. I eventually settled on a turquoise silk number. I slipped into it and noticed how it hugged my body. I also noticed how the hem ended about 3 inches above my knees. 'I gu