Wish s Chapter 3 Reluctantly I grant my husband s birthday wish
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Make A Wish Part 2 free porn video
MAKE A WISH Part 2
Copyright Kristy Leigh, 2003.
All rights reserved.
1.
The sun was starting to brighten the window when
Danny began to feel more like himself. Vaguely
conscious of his settling mood, he felt his heartbeat
slow to more normal parameters, his fright and
anguish receding like the morning tide. His feminine
persona withdrew as well, gradually disappearing into
the secret galleries of Danny's mind. There was no
line of demarcation, no visible boundary between his
twin selves. There was, at most, a sense of merging,
as two streams unite to form a river. The waters of
Danny's soul flowed from a single well-spring, but
the source divided much deeper than anyone could have
suspected.
If nothing else, Danny Milner was a survivor. It was
his one redeeming quality. Loners tend to live on the
ragged edge of human existence, plodding resentfully
through their minimum income lives. Danny was no
different. Years of hurt and disappointment had
steeled him to expect failure at every turn. But it
had also honed his subsistence skills to a fine
degree, allowing him to adapt to his frequently
desperate circumstances. Bitter, selfish and
staggeringly lazy, Danny had nonetheless developed a
pragmatic streak, one which had served him well over
the past four years.
He dried his eyes with the hem of the babydoll,
stubbornly choking back his tears. No point in
crying, as his father had often reminded him (usually
with a stunning blow upside the head). He could
almost hear Dad's voice rasping contemptuously in his
ear: Stop that SNIVELLING, you ugly little SHIT!
Patience had never been Dad's strong point. Still,
the old bastard was right on this occasion.
Blubbering in self-pity wouldn't improve his
situation. Nothing would. Except maybe tracking down
that fortune-teller. The one who'd done this to him.
(don't blame HER, you lousy chickenshit faggot! YOU
did this to YOURSELF)
Danny stood up, shaking his head in denial. No, this
wasn't his fault. He was the victim of some vicious,
malign joke. The Gipsy must have taken advantage of
his drunken state, erasing his masculinity out of
sheer cruelty. What other explanation was there? He
hadn't walked into the antique store asking for a
sex-change. What man in his right mind would?
Granted, he had residual memories of making some kind
of agreement with the Gipsy, something to do with a
mirror and a small sum of money, but that didn't make
any sense.
Nothing made sense right now. How was any of this
possible?
Short answer: it wasn't.
Long answer: it still wasn't, but here he was anyway.
And how wasn't particularly important at this stage.
If he'd been transformed into a girl, there had to be
some way to change back. He had to find the antique
store, barter with the Gipsy, get his old life back.
No ifs, ands or buts; he couldn't afford to take no
for an answer. Whatever it took, he had to walk into
the shop a girl and walk out a man.
Where am I? He asked himself, looking around the room
more carefully than he had earlier. Whose place was
this? Despite the expensive furnishings, it had a
blank, anonymous feel, as if anyone could have lived
here. Bedsitter? Unit? No... hotel room. A four star
hotel room on the upmarket side of Chamberlain. Sort
of place he'd never stayed in because he was a
shiftless loser with no money, no prospects and no
girlfriends. Well, none who were willing to visit a
hotel with him, anyway.
(so what am i doing here now?)
He had no memory of arriving here; couldn't even
recall if he'd paid for the room. His recollections
of the previous night were chaotic, disjointed.
Whatever the Gipsy had done to him, it had scrambled
his brains like an omelette. What part of the city
was he in? No idea. Where was the antique store?
Absolutely no idea. Somewhere in the Westside, maybe.
He'd found it after he'd left the Blue Rose, out on
Pitt Street. How long ago was that? Seemed like days,
but it couldn't have been more than a few hours. It
was early morning now, no later than five thirty.
He walked over to the closet, his hips swaying with
an unfamiliar gait. He was a girl now, his balance
seemed to have shifted by at least ten degrees. His
footsteps were light, almost fragile, the footsteps
of a waif. The girl in the mirror had been frail and
slight; a child still growing out of her baby fat.
Her large breasts were the only indication of her
physical maturity. Exactly the sort of girl Danny
used to -
(don't go there)
No. Don't even think about that. Stay focused, or you
might find yourself trapped in this body forever.
There was a subtle temptation to simply accept this
paradox, to surrender himself to its seductive
influence. His body had changed, taken on the form of
his deepest fantasies. Part of him desperately wanted
to return to the mirror, slip lithely out of the
nightie, explore the terrain of his supple, yielding
figure. Moan in ecstasy as his fingers closed around
his tender, throbbing nipples. How often had he
wondered...
(DON'T)
Shoving the image to the back of his mind, Danny
opened the closet, standing on tip-toe to inspect the
interior. As he'd guessed, it wasn't completely
empty. Obviously, he hadn't arrived naked, and he
couldn't have booked into the hotel wearing nothing
but a pink baby doll. He must have been wearing
something when he left the Gypsy's shop.
Not much however, by the look of things. There was a
short black dress mounted on a hanger, a classic
opaque mini barely long enough to touch her thighs.
Below that was a pair of red stiletto heels and a
black leather shoulder bag. Danny reached down and
picked it up, heart accelerating with sudden hope.
Maybe his wallet was inside, along with his keys and
bank card. He didn't have much in his account; less
than three hundred dollars as far as he could recall,
but his position wouldn't seem quite so desperate if
he could access some money.
Unfortunately, the shoulder bag contained very
little. And none of it was even remotely connected to
his former life.
Biting his lip in disappointment (a gesture he'd
carried with him since early childhood), Danny
emptied the carry-all over the dressing table and
started sorting through the contents. He scrutinised
each item in turn, silently cursing his growing
misfortune. A pink compact and two tubes of lip-
gloss. A stick of eyeliner, a set of ear rings and a
packet of hygienic napkins. A black lace bra and a
matching pair of satin panties, both sealed in
plastic envelopes. A red spandex hairband wrapped
around a brush. An empty key ring shaped like one of
the Powerpuff Girls (Buttercup, maybe, though he
didn't know for sure). Danny shook his head in
despair. Could there be anything more useless than an
adolescent girl's shoulder bag?
(YEAH: a mooching, parasitic FAG who likes dressing
up in WOMEN'S clothes)
"Shut up," Danny whispered, picking up the carry-all
and shaking it briskly. There HAD to be some money in
it somewhere, he wouldn't have made it past the front
desk otherwise. Sixteen year old girl wanders in at
two-thirty in the morning, dressed like a cheap
hooker; the night clerk would have taken one look at
her and demanded payment up front. This wasn't some
backstreet clip joint either; he'd be asking at least
seventy dollars a night, breakfast not included.
Hearing the tell-tale jingle of loose change, Danny
remembered to breath and quickly located the source.
There was a small, zippered compartment set into the
side of the bag. Odd that he hadn't noticed it
before; scavenging petty cash was one of his very few
innate talents. Probably the reason he'd garnered a
reputation for being tight-fisted back in high school
(a label he'd rarely deserved, in all fairness).
Upending the bag, Danny spilled a tiny handful of
coins onto the dressing table, his pretty face
falling in distress. A swift count totalled no more
than thirteen dollars. A trifling, insignificant
amount - wouldn't last him half a day, even if he
skipped breakfast and lunch. Dear God, what had he
gotten himself into? How much had he spent last
night, pickling his liver at the Blue Rose? How much
had he gleefully pissed against the wall in his
unending crusade to prove his manhood? No
recollection: it was all part of that ceaseless grey
limbo that descended on him after the sixth drink.
What have I done to myself? Danny thought, his eyes
stinging with encroaching tears. He might have
emptied his account for all he knew. Two hundred
dollars over a single weekend was nothing unusual: at
the end of the day, he was a fledgling alcoholic.
Even if he found his bank card, there might be
nothing left. And what would he do then?
Well, that wasn't hard to imagine. What does any
teenaged girl do when she finds herself alone and
homeless in the big city? Desolation broke over him
in a dark wave, almost driving him to his knees. He
leaned on the dresser with both hands, slim shoulders
heaving with misery. Was this all life came to -
twelve sixty-five in quarters, nickels and dimes? He
must have been worth more than this, surely. Why had
this happened? What had he done to warrant this
waking nightmare? The storm finally broke. Sobbing in
near-hysteria, he wept over the dresser's varnished
surface, soaking the meagre pile of money.
(stop. stop NOW!!)
Drawing back from the abyss, Danny slowed his pulse
by an effort of will. He'd shed enough tears for one
day. He had to control himself, stay calm, stay
focused. He couldn't afford to give in to his
anxieties, no matter how extreme the conditions. His
father had been wrong: he wasn't weak, wasn't
worthless, wasn't an aimless, simpering drifter. He
had to draw on his inner resources, marshal his
reserves. He'd been struggling all his life, fighting
the blind, cruel misfortune which had plagued his
every step. This was simply one more disaster, the
latest in a long line of catastrophes he'd endured
since the old man kicked him out.
Returning to the closet, Danny started undressing,
pulling the transparent nylon baby doll over his
head. The morning was rising slowly into day, and the
trail was growing cold. The path led back to the
Westside; he was absolutely certain of it. Now that
he'd managed to suppress his panic, the direction
seemed clear. It was time to get moving. Get up. Get
dressed. Get out.
Find the Gipsy.
2.
He stood before the closet in his sleek, naked body,
ignoring the impulse to look down. Women's genitalia
were an undiscovered country for Danny; his entire
knowledge of female anatomy came exclusively from
porn magazines and videos. He hesitated nonetheless.
Despite his overwhelming curiosity, he still had the
universal male phobia of emasculation. Much as he
wanted to run his fingertips over that soft, dimpled
mound, he was terrified of what he might (or rather
mightn't) find between his legs. Best to keep his
mind on the task ahead, which involved nothing more
complex than stepping into a pair of black satin
underpants.
The panties were high-cut bikini briefs, cool and
liquid smooth to the touch. A dainty red haze
encircled the waistband, an elegant lace trim adorned
the legs. Danny studied them in breathless awe, his
temperature rising to feverish levels. The thought of
actually wearing these silken wisps brought a faint
crimson hue to his cheeks. How could he possibly walk
down the street, knowing what he had on underneath?
The mere sight of them made his blood quicken with
excitement.
Not that he had much choice in the matter. It was
either this or the pink baby doll he'd woken up in,
and he sure couldn't go cruising the streets of
Chamberlain in that. He could only hope the black
mini turned out to be a lot longer than it looked.
Bending low from the hips, Danny slipped on the satin
pants, gasping with unexpected pleasure as the
shimmering fabric touched his flesh. He was at a loss
to explain his reaction; the spiking blood pressure,
the loss of breath, the butterflies swarming through
his belly. He was almost fainting with desire. True,
he'd had a passion for lingerie since grade school (a
furtive vice which both shamed and exhilarated him at
different times) but he'd never worn women's
underwear in his life. Not that he could recall,
anyway. There had been the dreams, of course - he'd
had them as far back as he could remember - but
dreams don't mean a thing.
(don't they?)
No, they don't. Face burning like a storm lantern,
Danny picked up the bra and removed the clear plastic
wrapper. He paused, stretching the black Lycra
garment between his hands, and inspected the
elaborate arrangement of hooks, clips and straps. It
was unbelievably pretty, a delicate collection flimsy
lace remnants. Like the panties, it was embellished
with an ornate red frill, the cups edged with sweet
floral patterns. So sheer, so skimpy; he doubted it
would adequately cover his ample bustline. His
stomach began to clench with unreleased tension, a
rich, sultry colour suffused his face and neck and
shoulders.
What am I doing? Danny asked himself in errant
disbelief, what in God's name am I doing? He hadn't a
clue how to put on a brassiere. It was some foreign,
unfamiliar device he'd rarely seen outside of the
Victoria's Secret catalogue. He'd certainly never
handled one until today. The knickers had been a
relatively simple matter - underpants of either sex
having the same basic design - but this was ... well,
strange. Alien, exotic, complicated. Maybe he'd
better just leave it off, fold it away in the
shoulder-bag and forget it ever existed.
No. It was only a bra, for God's sake. There was no
eldritch mystery here. We're talking about a
brassiere, the same as any pre-teen wears to the
skating rink! If a twelve year-old kid could master
the intricacies of an adjustable bra, then he could
too.
Of course, it was more than that. Much more. Danny
wanted to try it on, wanted to feel its gauzy texture
against his ivory skin. His breathing had shallowed,
he felt delirious, light-headed. Electric fire
cascaded through his sensory network, raising
gooseflesh along his arms and torso. He ran his
tongue over his full, rosebud lips, trembling like a
leaf in the rain. What was wrong with him? How could
he feel so aroused? He wasn't gay, wasn't effeminate,
wasn't the limp-wristed Nancy everyone had labelled
him back in high school. And he would swear on his
mother's grave that he'd NEVER wanted to be a girl.
Never!
Danny fastened the bra around his waist like a belt.
His fingertips fumbled with the hook-and-eye
attachments for nine seconds, missing the mark
several times. Finally popping the clasps into place,
he paused to double check his handiwork. The cups
were at least two sizes too small. The underwires
would probably pinch like an angry lobster
(underwires? Where did that come from? Wasn't part of
his vocabulary. Must've seen it in a magazine
somewhere. He used to read Cosmo back in his teens,
kept a small cache hidden under his mattress for
years. Yet another covert operation he'd had to
conceal from the old man. Dad would have beaten the
living crap out of him if he'd caught him reading a
women's magazine).
Reversing the bra so that the clasps were at the
back, Danny worked the straps over his shoulders,
easing his breasts into the cups one at a time. His
head spun as the lace slid across his nipples. A
burst of exquisite pleasure flared through his
nervous system. Exhaling deeply, he shifted the
brassiere into the most comfortable position,
wavering on the verge of ecstasy. His eyelids
fluttered in delight, a chill breeze whipped up and
down his spine. What did he look like? How would he
appear, squeezed into this gossamer harness?
Biting his lip in an agony of indecision, Danny
glanced towards the mirror. The temptation he'd felt
earlier was stronger than ever. Overpowering, in
fact. He had to know, had to see the girl he'd
become. She was the culmination of all his fantasies,
all his lonely, frustrated daydreams. He hadn't been
willing to admit that before, but there could be no
question of it now. She was his holy grail, his muse,
his incubus. All he had to do was step in front of
the mirror -
But he didn't dare.
He could feel his masculinity dissolving, fading into
the darkest corners of his subconscious. His
personality was shifting, melting into something
else, the way it had the last time he'd looked in the
cheval. He'd fainted over a bed and woken up female -
in mind as well as body. The image in the mirror had
altered his consciousness, his self-perception. If he
gazed into it again, he might lose himself for good.
He might become a girl in every sense of the word.
Yet how could he resist this urge, this...
compulsion? He could already hear the voice of his
Otherself whispering at the back of his head. Calling
to him, luring him forward. Preparing to take
control. Her influence was overwhelming. Much
stronger than he would have thought possible. How
could she be so powerful? She was only a girl, a
sixteen year old child. She should have been his pet,
his plaything. His slave. He was a male, she was
female; capitulation was out of the question. He had
to retain command of this body at all costs. But
standing here in his bra and panties, struggling to
keep his eyes off the looking glass -
(i want to see her)
One glimpse. That was all he needed. A single peek
wouldn't erase his ego; no way. The Girl couldn't
harm him; she didn't really exist. She was a glitch,
an aberration, the personification of his unfulfilled
sexual yearnings. "Danni" was nothing more than a
ghost in the system, a psychological mirage he'd
created in a moment of infinite stress. He'd been a
man for twenty three years now, a mirror couldn't
obliterate over two decades of social conditioning.
Or so he hoped.
Bloodstream thundering with anticipation, Danny
turned and walked barefoot across the room.
To be continued. Email me for more.
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