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One of Us by Vickie Tern I. It was all innocent enough. Probably. I thought so at the time, anyhow. Pam's oldest and best friend Jenny returned exulting from two weeks at the Club Caribe, an offshore, luxury, full-service vacation resort in the Caribbean. She'd praised everything about it, and Pam returned from her weekly lunch with Jenny convinced that Club Caribe was where we had to go soon to escape our miserable northern winter, above all to give me a two-weeks' respite from my work, from the exhausting demands on mind, body, and spirit exacted by my fund management activities. So that's where we decided to go. As Pam described it, it would be glorious, a complete change. Two weeks of baking in the sun and soaking in saunas and basking in warm, moist tropical air, of swimming, boogie-board surfing in the ocean and "body-surfing on each other" was how she put it. Could I say no to that? Also snorkeling, maybe learning to scuba. Tennis lessons -- finally maybe I could develop a decent backhand. We'd try golf if we felt lazy. We'd sail the wide bay in a lateen-rigged skiff, hauling in the sheet, heeling over, leaning into steady trade winds. Dance every evening. Meet new people. Do new things. Everything provided. "Jenny went there to get laid, didn't she?" I asked. "They provide that too?" Since her divorce from Carl her name hadn't been linked with any of the obvious bachelors in town, nor any of the more rampant studs either. But just to look at her, she was hot. "Not necessarily," Pam replied. "She has friends here you don't need to know about. She looks after herself. But the hotel does see that their clientele enjoy at least one pleasure of the flesh. She says she gorged herself on fabulous sea food at all-you-can-eat banquets. Cary, you should have heard her. Two weeks of eating crunchy fried rockfish and nibbling on stone crabs dipped in drawn butter! Two weeks of eating way more than anyone should. If we went, I'd release you from your diet. But only for those two weeks!" That was a serious concession! For months and months I'd been on a crash weight loss program, eating next to nothing and exercising vigorously every morning, under orders behaving as if I were an anorexic teenager girl. Because of years of bad eating habits, and worse. Let me explain. I may act alpha male because I have to, but it's a strain. I'm not one. At heart I'm easygoing, live and let live, go with the flow, let's see what happens. I always have been. High-tension, high- pressure decision making isn't anything I enjoy. Yet I was committed to it by my work. Some guys love it, I know that. They thrive on the cut and thrust, the competitiveness, on lunging at opportunities and when necessary screwing the other guy. I don't. In fact I hate it, all that aggressive assertiveness, the high pressure pitching of decisions to be made and the gloating over those that went right, and the glib rationalizing about those that went wrong. But I fell into it -- it turned out by accident soon after I left college that I was good at it. My first job was an internship doing commodities trading for a private mutual fund. I looked at the figures, the fundamentals, and I saw patterns, and I made killing after killing off other people who flew by the seat of their pants and ended up bare-assed. So the firm kept me on. And when I got married I started my own firm with a few special clients, added a few more, and prospered. Not me, the firm. I did what I had to do. I spent all day seated at a desk making snap decisions about big sums of money. I found myself a two-phones, six screens, two assistant financial consultant working at high speed all day, seizing opportunities, consulting, racing to close deals, unloading them before the markets turned, persuading people to put their money where my mouth said, putting other people's money out at risk and bringing it back for a profit. Doing it well more often than not, and that's the secret of success when you play in high finance. It's a game, dangerous if you think about the consequences, so you don't. It's short-order cooking during rush hour, out-thinking everyone else. And that leaves no time for daydreaming, often not even for a quick piss. Pam can close her office door and do an hour of Yoga stretching, then seem to lounge through her work all afternoon and still get things done, and I envy her that. Not me. When I did get away from my desks and phones and computers and high- speed calculations, it was only to dine in fancy restaurants with clients, to relieve their fears and reassure them and hope I was telling them the truth. Usually I was. But when I got home from an average day at the office, more often than not I was burnt out. I'd collapse and stare blankly at a blank wall, unable to concentrate on anything, even on Pam as she shared amusing anecdotes about her day. Sometimes I'd come home so edgy, so strung out I couldn't sit still. Nothing seemed as it should be. Pam would see me annoyedly re-setting chairs and tables an inch from where they'd been and she'd go upstairs to avoid me, to avoid hearing me snap at her on some pretext. She understood well enough that my work was nerve wracking, better in some ways than I did. She knew how it kept me chained to my desk nibbling on anything available when I wasn't actually devouring some kind of ordered-in take-out. How my hands and mouth were always full of something edible. For 'consolation and reassurance,' they told me when she sent me to an overeaters' clinic. That's why problem eaters eat. They hate themselves. Well, whatever. The overeater clinic's regimen didn't take. Fact is, I ate unawares all day, whether junk at my desk or great cuisines in the fancy restaurants where I took clients. All day. I never saw a double cheeseburger I didn't like, nor a Canard a l'Orange Flamb?. I ate while working the way others chain-smoke. Then I'd come home bloated, unable to touch any of the healthy foods Pam tried to provide me to compensate. She watched me get heavier and heavier, and we both watched as my blood pressure climbed through the roof. Of course eventually I got not just plump but obese. No, worse than that, corpulent. Gross. And as my body got to be a bother to haul around I moved less and gained even more. I didn't like it, but I wasn't inclined to do anything about it. There I was, barking out quotations and buy and sell orders into telephones all day while also reading financial reports and keeping an eye on the screens, always stressed out. Then getting home bone tired, often with a fierce headache, the kind that presages a stroke. I didn't like girding up for battle each morning. I hated it in fact. But I'd gotten habituated, and I suppose I stayed with it as the course of least resistance. It was easier to keep going than to decide not to. Pam didn't think so. "Cary, quit!" she insisted, more than once. "I mean it! This isn't what I married you for. You aren't being a husband, and I don't want to be a widow." "I guess not," I said, aroused for the moment from my mindless staring at a chair across the room, not yet recovered from the day's trading. Again more of my guesses had been right than not, and again I'd accrued a considerable amount of money for my clients. For me too. For us. "But you'll grant, it pays well." "We don't need the money," Pam replied. "Now that my inheritance has cleared probate, especially now, if you were never to go to the office again we'd live as well now. Even if I were to quit work, and my work is comparatively undemanding, nothing would change in our lives. Except that we'd spend more time doing more things together and we'd enjoy ourselves more and we'd live longer. You do your work well, Cary, better than anyone, and I respect you for that. But it's killing you! I want you to stop. Do something else. Anything. Do nothing!" I had no reply. She was right. I wanted to quit, part of me did, but old habits are hard to break. So each day I'd gear up and go in yet again to seize fortunes and evade catastrophes and eat my way through the day's decisions. Then come home fed up and worn out. Exhausted. Until last Fall, when Pam finally took charge. "You aren't just fat any more, Cary," she said one evening. "You're disgusting! I don't want to say it, but you ... well, in all honesty you aren't physically attractive to me any longer. I do love you, but ... well, you won't like this, but I've found myself looking around to see where I can do better. And thinking about divorce. I mean it. Except that Dr. Mueller tells me not to bother, it won't be necessary, she's quite sure you'll be dead of heart disease or a stroke very soon. She says she's told you to change your life radically, and she's told me you don't listen." I just stared at her. I'd heard most of this before. But never before that she was thinking about leaving me. That was new and disturbing. "Are you finally willing to do something about it, or do I leave you? I mean today, tonight. Jenny's offered me a place to stay until you can get your stuff together and move out of the house. I'm packed and my bag is in the car. Because ... because I can't stand to see you like this one more day." I was a shocked by her frankness, and now frightened too. I swallowed once, then nodded. Finally I was awake. "I'll do whatever you say," I said, half-choking. "Please!" "First of all then, your weight. Afterward we'll deal with your work -- I've been talking about this whole situation with Jenny, and we think we know how to wean you away from it. But you have to promise to do whatever I say! No hedging, no hesitation! We can discuss whatever I propose for a reasonable time, but in the end I make the final decision and you do what I say. Agreed?" Shook up, I agreed. And that was that. For most of the next year I worked my way back toward becoming again the man she married, and as I managed it I felt increasingly better about it. First she put me on a strenuous diet, my food intake ruthlessly calculated to the ounce. At work, instead of a bag of potato chips at my elbow I kept a bottle of water, and the office staff were enlisted as police, Pam's collaborators. It was hard at first. For a while I thought it was impossible. But I couldn't bring myself to cheat, not after that ultimatum, and pretty soon the weight began to fall off. Slowly but steadily. More important, she signed me into her Health Club. It was strictly for women only, but it was conveniently nearby and en route to my office, so there was no way I could ever drive past it forgetfully. Pam had been a member for years, stopping there daily on her way to work ever since I could remember. She wanted me to join it and work out with her daily. "You miss one session because you think you have urgent things to do," she said, "and that day we're through. Don't bother to come home. I'll know. Get your priorities straight and keep them there! I am deadly serious." She was, too. She talked to the Health Club board, and at first they abruptly told her No. Then she talked to them some more, and they saw their way toward making me a guest. Not good enough for Pam. More discussion and finally they admitted me to full membership. "What in the world did you tell them?" I asked Pam when she told me I was now a member and would be starting there tomorrow, going there with her every morning thereafter for a full hour, like it or not. We were just getting ready for bed. "I told them not to worry about you. That you're a sweetheart and a pet and practically a woman anyhow in spirit, that all the other women in my exercise group will love having you around. Because it's true enough!" She came over and put her arms around my neck and waited for my injured male ego to protest. It did. I did. I felt indignant. Was she trying to humiliate me? "What do you mean, practically a woman in spirit?" "I mean inside, honey. You may be a tense hard driver at the office, and you may try to be a son-of-a-bitch, but I know it's a strain. I know it isn't your natural disposition. I know that in lots of ways it runs contrary to your fundamental decency, and that's why it's a strain. Some men love chopping up the opposition and moving in for the kill, winning at any cost. You don't. You can out-think them, but I know you get no pleasure from it. Because Cary, let's face it, you are a nice man. Sympathetic, I'd even say soft. Compliant. Someone who'd always rather relax and go with the flow. You're what the girls in my dorm used to call a pussy." She moved toward me to kiss me. "That's what you are, my sweet pussy." There was just enough truth in what she was saying to spur an instant, angry denial. "I'm a what? That's an outrageous ...!" I backed away. "Now don't get all assertive and macho with me, Cary, you know perfectly well what I mean. You can't help it if you're a gentle man in a lean, mean line of work. I had to exaggerate a little to get you registered in the Club, but not a lot. You're basically sweet. I mean look at you when you aren't skinning the market. Kind, considerate of everyone around you, eager to help, not at all threatening, not physically and not otherwise. You must know that's how come you get on so well with all my women friends. Even with Jenny, and she's not comfortable with any man since her divorce. Even Jenny likes you. Women feel safe with you." "Thanks a bunch." "You're welcome. Honey, that's what I love about you! That's why I married you. Especially when I saw how Jenny's marriage to that arrogant bastard Carl was collapsing, what with him swaggering around bullying everyone and complaining about everything and coming home night after night pie-eyed drunk. Not you. You allow everyone all the space they need. Even me, you never try to dominate me or commandeer my comings and goings. That's why you're so lovable. You care about the things I care about. You want what I want. We're the best of friends as well as the most affectionate of lovers. We can talk to each other about all sorts of things." I didn't know if that was exactly a compliment either, but I took it as one. "You mean you can talk me into all sorts of things," I said. She smiled and took my hand and tugged gently. "That's true too. So come to bed," she said. "I want to talk you into me." "I'm listening," I said. I'd just put on my pajama top, but I bent toward her and raised my arms so she could pull it off me. It was a childish gesture, submissive I suppose, but she understood and she did. And we went to bed. I licked her. We fucked. Then as so often lately that wasn't quite enough for her, so she pushed me down to do her quim and I began to lick her again. At first it had seemed peculiar, even perverse, but now I no longer hesitated to suck my own cum back out of her. In fact it excited her, it gave her an odd erotic charge. With my first slurp she went rapturous, as much for the idea of it as the sensations. She no longer swallowed my semen but she loved it that I swallowed my own. The role reversal delighted her as much as the sensation of my lips and tongue on her cunt. "So good!" she'd murmur as I sucked and licked and poked her nether lips. "So good. Oh Cary, more, more!" So I lapped and tongued her all the more. It got to feel ... right, almost as satisfying as plunging my penis inside her. It comforted and reassured me, as I nursed on her sweet, salty pussy, to know that even after her second orgasm she'd keep me there, that she'd want me to fall asleep with my face plastered between her thighs and my lips still pursed on her clit, sucking gently. "My baby," she'd murmur as she drifted off. "Stay there forever!" She often told me that for going down on a woman I was unparalleled, a master artist. Just thinking about it would excite her enough to send us into the bedroom for yet another session. The next morning Pam introduced me to her exercise group, a collection of young and middle-aged women intent on keeping their bodies shapely and supple. They welcomed me and that was that -- I was one of them. Each morning thereafter I'd attend group activities and also a "body make over" session designed especially for me. Pam and I both devoted a strenuous hour daily to burning off calories before going to our separate offices. Not by lifting weights -- Pam wasn't into bulging biceps and six-pack abs -- but by sweating over the cycles and stair masters and Nautilus machines she and the other women used to maintain their muscle tone and figures. And doing group jazzercise and pilates and yoga stretches. It was incredibly difficult at first, embarrassing that I couldn't keep up with Pam or the other women, but gradually it got easier. As my swollen gut and butt and shoulders began to shrink back down Pam bought me a series of successively smaller leotards to work out in. They were a kind of club uniform everyone wore, and convenient. I'd leave them in a bin after each session, and the next day I'd find them in my locker freshly laundered. Whatever the exercises posted on the gym walls -- "buns of steel" to tighten rear ends, "outstanding boobs" to build supportive muscles behind breasts, "iron thighs" for squeezing, I did them. The trainer didn't want to make an exception of me in any way. So we'd begin each session doing the standard women's exercises, and we'd each work toward our own personal best body shape, encouraging each other while pulling, pushing, rolling, and jogging in place. Pam with her perfect body was just doing maintenance, and Jenny too, but Babs wanted to reduce a stretched-out belly after childbirth. Mika was building stamina enough to dance all night, "even vertically if I have to." Carolyn wanted a kind of fashion model figure, to become a skeleton with outrigger hips and cheek bones to match. I told them my true inner me needed liberation from my unacceptable body, and they nodded as if they all already understood. So we all sweated side by side together, encouraging each other and celebrating together when each interim goal was met on schedule. They did envy me my slim figure as it re-emerged. "You really should wear a mini, Cary," Jenny said, maybe partly seriously. "The world needs to see and appreciate those thighs -- they're gorgeous! You'll drive the boys crazy! Don't you think so?" I looked in the mirror, and could see something of what she meant. The leotard emphasized their curves. "Hmmmph!" is all I replied, not wanting to disagree. The other girls picked up on that kind of teasing -- it amused them and didn't offend me. "Just look at those slim hips," said Marnie, who was a medical resident in endocrinology. "My God, I'd kill for them! A few pills to develop you up top and you could model the clingiest Versace gowns. You'd devastate anyone just by walking toward them. Let me prescribe you some!" That's how they signaled they'd accepted me. I'd joke back that I wasn't a Versace type, more like Liz Claiborne. That was a name I knew, a brand of clothes my wife liked, pert and smart, sporty yet classic. So of course for my birthday the girls all chipped in and bought me a beautiful Liz Claiborne blouse -- "For a pretty good guy who'd be a pretty bad girl if she'd let herself," was what the card read. An affectionate gesture and I appreciated it, so I sustained the joke and told them I loved the blouse already. It was pale yellow, with small flowers and a deep plunging neckline, rather pretty. They insisted that after we showered, me as usual in the men's alcove used by some of the instructors, I should put it on and return to the women's locker room and show them. I did just that and they screamed their delight when they saw me. Then before letting me go they insisted on completing the picture by tousling my hair and decorating my face with lipstick. It was embarrassing, but I let them. I didn't look too bad as an imitation woman, I had to admit to myself. Though it was a job scrubbing the lipstick off before I headed out to the parking lot to drive to work. Pam stood by watching, amused, letting them have their fun. Later that evening, when we were alone at home, she asked if I'd enjoyed the extravaganza, and I had to confess I had. "It was so thoughtful of them," I said. I then ceremoniously presented the blouse to her -- I assumed that had been everyone's actual intention for it. Pam accepted it, but added "Awww, Cary, you shouldn't. It's yours! I tell you what -- I'll consider it yours and only on loan to me. It really is lovely! Really, it's you!" Very amusing. I heard the same genial teasing tone in her voice as in the other women's, no offense intended, so I replied, "Thank you" gratefully, and gave her a partial curtsy. "It is pretty, Pam. I'll love seeing you in it." But Pam had now raised an issue I was curious about. "You know," I said seriously as we were preparing for bed. "The girls, they like to joke with me about being a girl, practically one of them. All the time. I don't mind, but sometimes it seems a little excessive." "Because you are one of us," she said. "Or anyhow, they think you are." Not credible. Did she mean 'in spirit,' as she'd said earlier? I stared at her. "To get you into the Club I had to tell the Board that you're a partially transgendered woman, that you're trying to decide whether to go all the way and become a woman in fact. You know, hormones, boobs, dresses, your very own pussy, the lot. They in turn asked the girls in our group if there was any objection to you joining them 'transitionally' as they put it. There was none. In fact the girls thought it kind of cute, even flattering that a guy should want to become a girl. They also thought it truly loving of me that I didn't mind. That's really why the Club admitted you despite their strict 'Women Only' rule. That's why I've had you wearing a woman's leotard when you exercise -- you didn't know that's what it is? So as your body thinned down and took shape you'd blend in better. That's why you do those tits and ass exercises, and that's why I haven't insisted you cut your hair. That's also why none of the women ever try to come on to you when I'm not there -- I wanted that for my own peace of mind, honey." But I'd been stopped by the earlier part of her revelation. "You told them I'm ... I'm a what?" "I told you the first day! 'Practically a woman' is what I said to the board. Remember? It really is sweet that the girls are all trying to help! Look how they've been encouraging you to make yourself more attractive! You've been at it for months and now you've mostly done it and everyone admires you for it. So feel proud!" While I was wrestling with this revelation Pam made a further suggestion. "Oh yes, the Club staff has been wondering why you don't try to behave a little bit more ... womanly. The way women do. Would you? Only when you're at the Club, and only now and then. For show. But when you can, try to subdue your masculinity and go a little more ... how can I put it ... girly? No one'll think the less of you. In fact the more like the rest of us you seem the more comfortable we'll all feel. I bet you'll enjoy it too once you get into it." "How do I do that?" I asked, though I was afraid I already knew the answer. "Sort of put yourself into a deliciously feminine mood now and then, you know, flounce and gush sometimes, be flirty and catty all at once. Feel free to be more impulsively expressive, or more whimsically silly. More playful or emotional. Appealingly self- indulgent. The way we all do. Watch us and move the way we move. Don't worry about how I may feel about it, sweetheart. I'll know the whole time that you're all the man you need to be where it matters!" It took me a few days to deal with Pam's suggestion, but I guess I did feel proud of my new, lean body, and I did owe it in part to all the supportive encouragement I was getting. So I did go swish now and then when I was among the girls, if only to make good Pam's little fib, but also as a kind of courtesy to them. I watched and imitated them. I studied the way they moved their hips and their shoulders, little twists and wiggles when denying something, their ways of tossing their heads when astonished, how they turned a little sideways when urging something. The way they always face each other openly when talking, unlike men, who stand side-by-side and stare at something else, as if eye contact were a challenge, a clash of swords. The way they lower their eyelids demurely when talking to a man, then raise them to look him straight in the eyes for emphasis. All things I now realized I'd always found enormously attractive, cute, even sexually provocative, because so distinctly feminine. Yet doing them myself turned out, surprisingly, to be comforting, a kind of relief from the tough male stoicism I was raised in. My masculine self-control relaxed, and my sympathies, certain delicious new feelings grew stronger as I talked enthusiastically with the girls in our group about this or that, sharing my little excitements. They themselves seemed more relaxed whenever I drooped my wrist, or marveled aloud at their choice gossip, or put a lilt in my voice, or expressed an opinion of some woman's hairdo or some other woman's morals all the while we were laboring together on the treadmills. One day I mistook Pam's cologne for my after-shave and splashed it on, and when I arrived for my workout two of the women actually came over and hugged me. So I used her cologne thereafter, and Pam bought me my own bottle. They all grew warmer toward me as they accepted me as one of their own, sort of. I realized that their teasing about my supposed effeminacy had been their way of urging me to get on with it. The main result was altogether satisfactory. "You do love it, all this girl talk, don't you," Pam observed one day when she'd overheard me chatting with Chelsea about a pretty new dress she'd gotten for a date with a new boyfriend, how cute it had looked on her, and then after it had done its job, off her. We were standing in the parking lot, about to separate for the day. "It's relaxing. It encourages me," I replied. Pam looked carefully at me when I said that. I meant to exercise harder and lose more weight, no more than that. But Pam thought perhaps I meant something else.. "You mean it encourages you to be more feminine? More like us? To let yourself go even more girly?" "That too, I suppose. I can't say I dislike it. It's a kind of game for me now, this role-playing. It's pleasantly distracting to begin the day talking about make-up and boyfriends and the strange customs of husbands and sharing family worries before I have to gear up to go to the office and wrestle all day with high-performance fund managers and invested escrows and so on." Pam nodded. "They all think that since you want to be a woman you should just get on with it. Jenny and I were watching you with Chelsea -- she thought it was so cute, the way you were bobbing your head and tossing your hands around while talking to her. So dainty. Neither of us would have thought you were a man, seen from any distance. You even give yourself a high pony tail like ours these days when you come out on the floor for pilates." "When I bind my hair low in back, male style, it gets sweaty. That's all. High up is out of the way." "And pinned up in a bun or a French twist? Like now?" "You know yourself! So it won't fly up and down when I do my warmup squats and leaps." Her face remained inexpressive as she said, "No complaint -- now that it's long of course pin it if you wish. You can do many more things with it, too. Maybe you should keep it pinned up? In fact Beth asked me the other day why you don't just move on and get it properly styled and start using make-up. Why you don't just cross over and live as a woman, period, if that's what you are. Have other women asked you that?" "Good God, Pam, no! They know I live and work as a man. I suppose they think I'll get to it in good time" "All right," Pam said. "That's good. I know you're under pressure at the office -- I wouldn't want you to feel pressured here too. Here you should just feel free to be yourself." She picked up her purse. "So you go, girl! Enjoy being yourself! See you tonight!" "Tata!" I said, waggling my fingers at her. She grinned. After six or eight months of this regimen I was in better shape than I'd ever been. My weight and waistline were down to what they'd been in my scrawny mid-teens, though exercises targeted toward feminine shapeliness did kept my pectorals and glutens a bit larger than that. I had curves, some, not disproportionate. One of the women urged me to get that Versace gown as soon as possible, "so your willowy new body can begin to find out what it's for," as she said. I decided to tease back for once. "What makes you think it doesn't already know?" I asked, my eyebrows raised high and my eyes wide open, as women tend to make them when asking such questions. She looked surprised, then beamed. She was right though. I weighed very little more than Pam weighed, and since I was slightly taller I looked even thinner, "more svelte" as they said, even with my somewhat larger pectoral muscles and noticeably rounded 'buns of steel'. Not that we were otherwise comparable. I was relatively lean, while Pam was round and generously proportioned. I had a bulge below where she lacked one, and of course no bulges above where hers were wonderfully abundant. True, I was nicely curved in my legs and butt after all that curve-creating exercise, but Pam was curved everywhere. In fact, Pam was drop-dead gorgeous. Her figure like her face was as beautiful as ever, unchanged since college, still very much what I'd yearned toward the moment I first saw her. I'd set myself to win her admiration and love and I'd done it, and her face and body too. I had no problem worshiping both. I absolutely adored both. It was months before she'd allowed me to enter her -- she had to be sure about me, she'd say. "After some of the guys I've dated, you're almost too good to be true," she told me once. But she did let me eat her pussy almost from our first date, and she loved it. Encouraged it. Soon, whenever she looked at me with a certain facial expression, that was all it took for me to drop me to my knees and thrust my face into her crotch. Then we could both be ecstatic for hours. I never tired of kissing and sucking and smooching her slit and her clit, enjoying the intimacy and the subtle aromas, the taste of her when she was wet, making her wriggle and hearing her moan, bringing her up and up to near shrieking. Neither did she. Her orgasmic spasms got so intense that sometimes the fucking that followed almost seemed an afterthought, an accommodation to my need to get off. Almost. But when afterward I'd eat her again, and myself inside her, she was content. Not that Pam wasn't a proper girl, always concerned to maintain respectability. She was. Yet, when we were first engaged she'd raffishly test my mouth's dedication to her pussy in strange places -- movie theaters, taxis, the bathrooms of friends' apartments during dinner parties. I once went down on her under a tablecloth in a darkened night club, and while I was there some man named Ray she knew from work came over and sat down to chat. What could I do? Stay there. She greeted him, and as they talked she casually reached under the table and pulled my face into her twat -- after all, that was why I was down there. I licked her delicately, just enough to make her squirm, just enough to keep her reminded of me. Meanwhile I listened to him come on to her full force -- he was a man with enormous charm and persistence. She tried not to encourage him, but obviously what I was doing to her kept her face flushed and her body tense, and she occasionally wriggled as if in heat. He could see it, and thought he was having that effect on her, so he kept at it! Finally he gave up and left. "See you tomorrow," he said in a voice ripe with implication. "Yes," Pam replied with a deeper, richer moan than I'd ever heard come from her throat. At that moment I swiped my whole tongue over her clit. "Oh, yes," she squealed. I grinned to myself. When he left, he must have been convinced that tomorrow was the day! When I came out from under, Pam and I just looked at each other and then silently paid our bill and left. Neither of us could wait to get home and into bed and wrapped around each other and into each other, to turn each other's brains into butter and jelly. Which we did. When I asked her the next evening how her wannabe office stud had behaved, she smiled replied only "You heard how persistent he is. God, some men!" Then she took a deep breath, stood up, said "Come!" and led me directly to our bed. She loved feeling desirable, obviously. She was juicy long before I got into her! That's how Pam was and how she still is. She wants her pleasures, and whatever she wants she gets. I could refuse her nothing. So when she proposed that despite the pressures of my work we take a two week midwinter break at this Club Caribe, as Jenny urged, that settled it. It wasn't easy. It took me over a month to clear the two weeks. Life at the office became a series of twelve or fifteen hour days and endless conferences while I tied off all sorts of negotiations, delegated work elsewhere, trained my assistants to perform my routines on their own, and put everything else on hold. Pam appreciated my efforts and never complained when for days on end I'd keep at it till late at night, arriving home after she was already asleep. I even had to pull a few all nighters at the office to deal directly with the Tokyo and Hong Kong exchanges. In my absence she read, watched TV, spent evenings with Jenny and other friends, stuff like that. I felt guilty about neglecting her, but what could I do? It was all so we could have two full weeks together uninterrupted, something we'd never managed to do before. So well worth it. I finished my last task late the last night before our scheduled departure, and when I arrived home finally fully liberated Pam was asleep. As usual. So I didn't dare turn on a light in order to pack for our early morning departure. Instead, the next morning I simply dumped my whole last summer's wardrobe into a single large valise -- shirts, shorts, trunks, trousers, everything, and that was that, and off we went. No harm, I figured. Whatever I needed would be there, somewhere -- I'd sort it all out after we arrived at the resort. And whatever was lacking I could buy there. Then when we arrived and unpacked in our hotel room I saw what I'd done. Disaster! How dumb can you get? I'd lost so much weight that nothing from last summer fit me. Nothing! My short-sleeved shirts hung on my slender arms like bed sheets. The shoulders of my blazer jacket slouched halfway to my elbows, my hands lost somewhere in the sleeves. My pants and shorts ballooned over my legs like tents, and when I buttoned them they fell straight to my ankles. I tried tight-belting a pair, re-distributing the extra fabric around my waistline, doubling it all onto my belly and bunching it against each hip. I looked like an unmade bed, and tried and failed to persuade myself that it would do. "Those are your tailored shorts?" Pam asked, looking at me in the mirror where she sat fixing her face so we could go to dinner. "They look like one of Mika's bargain-basement miniskirts." She glanced again. "That's what you expect to wear to tonight's welcoming banquet?" "I better go downtown right now and buy some clothes that fit," I said morosely as I stripped down and then went through my valise, contemplating one item after another. Everything was equally unsuitable. "I wonder if there's time." "No, there isn't," she replied as she stared into the mirror and applied her lipstick. "The shops on this island are inland, miles away, Cary. And it's already past six, and dinner is scheduled for seven. And it's Saturday night -- most stores are closed by now anyhow." She turned to me. "And tomorrow's Sunday. Nothing's open here on Sunday. What are you going to do?" She sounded disappointed. Our fabulous vacation was already off to a bad start. I only half-heard her. Should I wear the heavy wool suit I'd worn on the plane, I was thinking? No, not an option. This afternoon on arrival Pam had sent it out to be cleaned and pressed while I was blissfully napping, still exhausted from my last minute scurrying around. "Be prompt for the special banquets or miss out, that's what the concierge reminded us," she added. "Jenny warned me that they mean it. At tonight's welcoming feast the hors d'oeuvres alone include oysters, crab cakes, and lobster salad, I noticed in the lobby. Your favorites and mine. They'll go fast. Be there on time or eat leftovers!" "I should have tried on these clothes before we left," I said, declaring the obvious in order to foreclose any temptation on her part to lecture me on the obvious. "I just didn't have the time." "No, you didn't, did you," she said sympathetically. She turned to look at me. "You poor dear," she added. But she was nevertheless concentrating -- a problem is a problem and needs to be solved. She stared at me, obviously thinking hard. Then stood up and rummaged in a drawer and tossed me something in blue velour. A pair of her own dress shorts. "Here, these are almost unisex, and they ought to fit you. You told me a few days ago that your waistline is nearly down to mine, didn't you? Well, I can't wear this kind anyhow -- coming from the airport I saw that the women down here are wearing only Bermudas and Capris. This year, anyhow." "Oh? You want me to wear something that's last year?" I asked, in my best 'girlish indignation' manner. She just looked at me. She approved my jesting with women at the Club as if I were one of them, it amused her, but all my jokes about the volatility of women's fashions had long ago worn thin. I looked over the garment she'd thrown in my direction. They were last year's style all right, hot pants, really short shorts, tight in the crotch, with their legs flared out dramatically wide to emphasize hip curves and de-emphasize the thickness of a woman's thighs. Cuffed. Pull-up, elastic in back, with a little decorative bow in front. "There's no fly," I observed. "Pull them down if you have to pee while we're downstairs," she advised dryly. "Some of us do that all the time. It works." I hesitated. "Try them on, Cary. No, not over those boxers for God's sake. Better with no underwear at all than that!" I stripped naked and pulled them over my loins. The waistline was fine, but now a new problem emerged. Literally. My cock and balls hung into the open left leg and peered out from below the angled cuff. There was no crotch room for them. Pam saw, amused. "Playing peek-a-boo? If it isn't one thing it's another, isn't it? Or in this case it's all three of them. Have they no modesty? Well then, here," she said. She tossed me something else, small and pink and satiny and elastic. I caught it and stared at it, bewildered. It looked too teeny to be a garment. "A hi-leg control panty. Spandex to provide support where needed. Tuck those dangling things back between your legs, then cover then with this," she said, holding up a sanitary napkin. "Then pull up your panty. Everything will stay put, guaranteed. I've never lost a Kotex yet." She paused and smiled a broad smile. She was enjoying this. "Maybe your privates will feel a little mashed, but at least they'll stay private." My eyes drifted involuntarily to the shorts she was wearing. Long, smooth khakis that ended just above her knees. "Can't I wear a pair of those?" I asked her, pointing at them, a faint pleading note in my voice. "If you wish," she said. "But look!" She stood up. Appearances had deceived. They weren't close-tailored to fit her thighs, not at all. In fact their over-wide legs draped to form the impression of a flirty skirt. "They're really a kind of skort. If you wore my other pair of these you'd have to go all the way and also wear one of the blouses I brought down to go with them. And fix your hair more suitably. Maybe add a dash of lipstick and mascara, or else appear in public ill-dressed and disgraceful. Are you ready for that? The girls back home would love to hear it I'm sure. They'd throw you a wonderful coming out party. But if you couldn't make yourself 100% persuasively feminine, what would people here think?" She looked at me, amused by the idea. Then her face turned serious. "What indeed?" she said to herself. "Why not?" And she thought some more. "You've been there before, in most of the ways," she said to me cryptically. "You can do it easily. It isn't that big a leap from where you've been. You even liked it. It's long since time!" And stopped again. Then, "I tell you what," she said finally. "Do as I say and put that panty on, and maybe that'll solve the problem. Then maybe the rest of it won't be necessary." I pulled her highly elasticized panty onto my crotch as instructed -- like most things pertaining to women it was tougher than it looked, flexible to a point, then unyielding. As instructed I pushed my genitals between my legs and covered them with her maxipad, then pulled the whole unit up tight. Everything stayed where I'd put them all right. But when I took a step, ouch! My balls were squeezed! I winced and took a second step. Ooof! It settled into a dull ache. She saw, but merely smiled slightly, not very sympathetically. "These are the times that try men's souls," she said. "If that's where you keep yours. You could get rid of them -- that's what the girls back home think you mean to do sooner or later. But until then you'll just have to exercise some of that manly stoicism you're always urging on me whenever my ankles hurt from the high heels you always want me to wear. Get used to it. Pretend you're having your monthlies, and consider yourself lucky you aren't also bleeding." "Not funny, Pam," I said. I took an experimental step or two. Ouch. But endurable. "Now try the shorts on top." I pulled them on over the panty. They fit neatly, no problem, a little larger than needed in the hips but comfortable in the waist. Very snug in the crotch. I saw they were designed with no fly so they'd hug my groin to form a perfect V that curved down between my legs. I had a woman's mound, and the leg creases placed it on exhibition. Obvious to everyone -- look, ma, no nothing! If I were a woman, I'd look great -- there'd be no doubt whatever about my sex or my willingness to flaunt it. But as a man I looked altogether unmanned. Castrated. I said so. "No," Pam said. She was now obviously enjoying my discomfiture. "You look womanned. Female, that's all. Those shorts are designed to show one of the things that makes a woman unique and desirable, and they fit as intended. Women aren't castrated. We're just more modest than men, that's all. Less boastful. We don't fill our crotches with cocks and balls bunched up front and forward, the way men do. Where they get in the way of everything, including walking. We keep our genitals hidden until the proper time. Then, as you know, we can show we have what it takes." "Maybe you keep your lower parts hidden," I said defensively. "But you keep your upper parts up front and forward for all the world to admire." I glanced at the top she'd put on. A glittery black knit scoop neck designer Tee, her breasts protruding prominently and even showing a bit of cleft. Gorgeous! Her figure was on parade! She was as proud of her breasts as I was -- often she didn't even wear a bra. And this, I could see, was one of those times -- under the thin fabric each breast pushed way out, tipped with a nipple. An erogenous sensitive nipple, I had reason to know. I felt a certain turgidity begin down below, then quickly intensify into a steady-state dull ache. Can I get through dinner looking at those boobs but clamped in like this? Well, I'll find out soon enough, I told myself. When I had to sit down especially. I wasn't anxious to try. "You've never complained before," she said. "You love my breasts. It's as if you wanted a pair of your own. The girls all think you do. Marnie has never understood why you weren't already growing them." "Because I already have breasts of my own," I replied, pulling a way- oversized sport short out of my valise and staring at it. "Yours!" Could this shirt cover my female-style crotch and re-establish my respectability? No, not this one, way too wide and too short. Would a T-shirt serve instead? No, and anyhow an ordinary T-shirt isn't quite dressy enough for this special dinner. The management didn't insist on jackets and ties, but I knew I had to wear something with a collar. "Mine are available on loan, that's true," she replied. "When I don't need them for my own purposes. But only when you're on your good behavior." "Mmmmm," I said. The ache in my balls was still distracting me. "Speaking of chest areas, you aren't going to wear that thing you have in your hand I hope!" Her voice was firm as she stared at yet another oversized sport shirt I was now holding. "No, you're not, no way! You don't have anything that looks less like we'd both slept together inside it for a week?" "No. I was just wondering whether I can get away with wearing my windbreaker." "Tacky. They're for out of doors, not for a hotel dining room. That's the summer equivalent of eating with your overcoat on. And informal as the dining may be here, this is not a diner and tonight is a banquet night. No!" Pam again worrying about respectability, at least the show of it. She'd cut corners or violate propriety when it pleased her, or when she wanted me to please her. Even so, I'd always admired her determination always to be seen wearing and doing the right thing, an art every woman cultivates, and the considerable ingenuity that sometimes requires. "No need to worry about propriety," I said, partly just for the sake of argument. "Gossip about unconventional behavior down here on this island will never reach people back home to disgrace us." "That's true. Yes. What happens at Club Caribe stays at Club Caribe, I'm sure. But even though the dress code here is informal, it isn't arbitrary. Out of respect for the other guests you do need to wear something appropriate." She hesitated, staring at me with her eyebrows raised. "Or something that seems appropriate." "I don't have anything appropriate," I said simply, staring now at the bottom of my valise. "Nothing!" She kept staring at me, then seemed to reach a decision. ii. "All right, if that's how it has to be. Why not?" she said half to herself. "You just said it -- no one back home need ever know. Though the girls in our exercise group would be delighted to know." A lively smile flashed across her face, quickly suppressed. "It can be fun!" Then to me, "You've practiced it long enough, God knows. It'll work! And you did bring this on yourself after all, Cary!" "Why not what? Practiced what? Brought what on myself? After all what?" "This!" She reached into her closet and pulled out one of her summer jackets. Pink, or anyhow, salmon colored, long thin sleeves, with narrow lapels, single-breasted, pinched in at the waist and flared just below. Adorable, very feminine. I loved seeing her in it. Her breasts always seemed twice their size the way they pushed it out in front. "This will certify your new way of life, at least until the stores open on Monday. Here you go." "No way," I said. "With these shorts? They already shout out 'Pussy inside, handle with care'? Add that jacket and I'll be the belle of the ball. People will think I'm a woman! I'll need a club to beat off the men who crowd around." I thought I was joking, following up on what had to be her joke. "Don't flatter yourself, doll," she said. "Your face is pretty in a way, I think so and I love it, I've certainly told you that often enough. You're lovely, or you could be if you did yourself up properly. But you're no raving beauty. True, you now know all of the femme moves that men find attractive, all of the weaving of rear ends and touching of hairdos and wriggling of shoulders that drive them bonkers. I've seen the girls having fun coaching you in them, teaching Flirtation 101, and I've seen you practice the moves on the exercise machines. You've been a woman-in-training for months and months. The girls at the Health Club all accept you as one of them. I think everyone here will too if we do this job right." Her eyebrows raised as she studied me, and behind them I could see her mind whirring, solving fix-me-up problems one after another -- yes, it was easy, she seemed to be telling herself. "Yes," she concluded. "That jacket will cover you yet flaunt your boobs the way a girl should, you were just saying so yourself. You'll need to wear a blouse under it for modesty's sake, but I've got the very thing, your own. And you'll need a bra under that." "A bra? What are you talking about!?" "I'm talking about you dressed decently in public, so you don't attract attention." "By appearing in public in a woman's jacket and these women's shorts?" I said. "And a blouse and a bra? And that won't attract attention? No!" And that was that. "No!" "You can't just wear the jacket alone. That would leave your tits exposed shamelessly. Or your lack of tits. Here!" she said. With her other hand she pulled out a familiar-looking flowered blouse with a small embroidered collar. "Remember this? Your Liz Claiborne?" "I remember," I said unhappily. "Your Liz Claiborne." "On loan, that's true. The girls at the Health Club will love knowing that you wore it to a gala dinner," she added, as if attempting to encourage me with that argument. "And you'll need a bra to give yourself the right shape if you should need to remove your jacket for some reason. I bet we can get away without padding -- those breast development exercises gave you marvelously full pectorals, and lately you've been showing ... ahh, I guess we can call it residual or maybe excess body fat under your chest skin. Enough to gather up and cup I bet. Then too, a bra will hide the dark areas around your nipples -- we aren't showing our areolas this year I'm afraid. You don't want to look like a slut, do you?" "No," I said again. "No matter what the women at the Health Club think, I know what I am. I'd be a laughingstock!" "You can't possibly wear any of my other tops -- they're too clingy, the kind you like. Too form-fitting, and your form isn't fit. Nearly, not yet. So you decide. This jacket and the blouse with a bra?" She lifted them each in turn. "Or ...." I stared at her. Was she serious? She was serious. "Pam ...," I started to say. She lifted an eyebrow. "Or your alternative, which I regret to say is to stay here and eat room service. The kitchen's gone all out for the welcoming banquet, remember, they told us that at the front desk. Which may be why the featured room service specials tonight are" -- she leaned over a menu on our desk -- "plain hamburgers or grilled cheese sandwiches. Also what they call here 'Twice-baked Pizza' -- that's got to be yesterday's pizza reheated, have they no shame? Here's the menu, see for yourself. Your choice. I intend to eat lobster and crab for openers, and then move on to more scrumptious main courses. Very soon, too." I was silent. Pam was sympathetic. She knew that after my month after month of dieting I'd been looking forward to this two week pig out. So she tried to encourage me. "Don't be ashamed, sweetheart," she said. "I can fix you up so no one will know. I'm sure I can bring out your inner woman, and then she can bring out her inner pleasure in dining well. You'll look cute." More silence. "I did hope we'd be enjoying all that delicious food together. But I won't mind going down to the banquet alone. All the more opportunity for me to check out those good looking guys we saw all over the lobby when we arrived. Who are they, do you know? What was it the concierge told us, there's some kind of golf tournament going on this week? Or was it a body builders' convention? I'll ask around and find out." "Golf this week," I said unhappily. "Body builders next week." "Mmmmm," Pam replied. "I wonder which I'd prefer. Lean, tan, and sinewed or hard bodied, bulky, and well-cut. I'm starved for sex -- we haven't made love for nearly a month now, you know, you've been so busy clearing your desk for this vacation. Maybe I'll just go wild and take on all comers. No favorites! Become an equal opportunity man hunter!" I know I looked grieved. I felt grieved. "Mmmmmmmm," she said sexily. Then "Mmmmmmaaaahhhhgh!" and "Ahhhhhgh" she added, still watching me closely. Those were the guttural, yearning sounds that emerge from her throat after I've licked her cunt half-way to orgasm, when I'm crawling up to sink my prick into her. When she's anticipating how that'll feel. "All right, all right, I'll be a girl. Let's see the blouse and the jacket." "The blouse fits, we know that. First try the jacket." She handed it to me. I took it and carefully slid my arms into it. The sleeves were tighter than any man's jacket I'd ever worn, but my shoulders and arms fit. Just barely, but not uncomfortably. I buttoned it. The waistline fit too. "We wear jackets like that open," Pam said. "That's another reason you'll need the blouse." "We?" "We. We women, Cary. That's what you are now. You'll have to think 'we' until Monday at the earliest. Ooooh, I love the idea! My darling sweetheart transformed into my darling girlfriend for two whole days! Isn't that what they call a 'paradigmatic shift'? Can you manage it? I'm shifting you this very moment, in my mind! There! Magic! Now you're a girl!" "I'm not that imaginative," I said glumly. "Oh yes you are. I've heard you gossiping away with the girls, and seen your facial expressions and flounces in their company. You certainly are. As for the jacket, the fit is fine. You look darling. This may work." She looked at me with an enigmatic expression. "Look at yourself in the mirror, honey," she said. "And tell me what you see." I did. "I see a slim-hipped man wearing ... all right, I see a pale- faced woman with shortish hair in a cute jacket and provocative pair of shorts, with pretty good legs if I do say so. Put me in a pair of high-heeled shoes and I'm all set for a night of streetwalking. Are you serious?" "I am serious, Cary. It's you who didn't pack properly for this trip. I understand why -- you didn't realize you need a whole new summer wardrobe, and if you had you were too busy to buy one, and you didn't want to wake me last night, and I do appreciate all that. But have you any alternatives? What you're now wearing will work, trust me. With a little make-up you'll be perfect! Adorable! As for streetwalking, high heels won't work with that outfit, but I can lend you a pair of sandals that'll go perfectly. Tomorrow maybe we'll get our hair done and then tomorrow evening we'll can both try something with heels and long dresses perhaps, if you're that eager to attract men. Then we can visit the casino and mingle with the gamblers. See who gets lucky. Wouldn't you love that?" No response from me. She inspected me impersonally, faintly frowning. "Ok, off with the jacket. Let's fit you into your bra. But first, all that chest hair between your breasts must go. It ruins the view." "What are you talking about, Pam? What breasts?" "You don't see them? That jacket's tailored to anticipate and provide plenty of room for any girl's endowments. Look how sweetly it bulges just where it should. It isn't your fault you don't fill the space provided, but no one'll know that until they try to grope you. A bra will help. What's unbecoming is the hair on your chest. That's one place on a woman's body where there's never any hair. It has to go." "The blouse and the jacket will cover it. No one will know." "I'll know. You'll know. When your bra flexes and tugs on those hairs, you'll surely know. Anyhow, girlhood isn't just surface appearances, it's how you know you look and feel underneath. A girl likes knowing her lingerie is sexy and her skin is smooth and soft and inviting. For her own sake. It helps her self-confidence. It helps her decide whether to act properly feminine or improperly feminine. So go shave your body and we'll fix up the rest of you when you return. Shave your face again too, and your arms. Thoroughly. Hurry now, time is getting short!" I turned and started toward the bathroom, dazed. As I began walking, the pressure from my thighs registered again as a dull ache in my balls. To ease it I tried walking with a slight rolling gait. That worked, but I realized immediately that I was putting exaggerated English on my hips. Really swaying to avoid squeezing myself. "Very provocative," Pam's voice declared behind me. "I'm glad you're getting into the spirit of this thing. But I wouldn't try that downstairs, honey, they don't allow soliciting inside the hotel." I turned and saw her grinning broadly. I still couldn't tell if she was serious. When my electric razor sent the last of my chest hair into the washbasin, and a safety razor had cleared the stubble from everywhere, Pam poked in to hand me her skin lotion. "Stroke this into both of your breasts especially, girly. You know how we're supposed to feel when guys finally get their hands on us. And how we're supposed to smell when they nuzzle us -- it has a lovely scent." "No guys," I said, trying to keep this whole bizarre episode light- hearted, a game. "I'm off guys!" "You yourself said it," she replied. "How are you going to beat them away?" I couldn't think how to save myself this further embarrassment. We were improvising rapidly, or rather Pam was. No matter. Do what she says. No one back home will see or know. Eventually the hair'll grow back. She was enjoying this, my pretending to be female. But was she also serious? She was. I guess she felt she had to be. When I came back out, hairless and soft and scented like flowers, I asked her directly. She replied, "You haven't figured it out yet? Honey, face it, we have to be serious! You need to go all the way! Either look like a girl for the next couple of days or look like a weird transvestite freak, a ridiculous mockery. An absurdity. You know perfectly well that people feel uneasy when gender and sex signals are mixed, that they assume that all effeminate men are gay and all gay men effeminate. It never occurs to them that men who prefer other men sexually may well do so because masculinity turns them on -- they like the look of a man. So if anyone recognizes that you're really a man, the word will spread quickly that you're gay and strange, and for the rest of our time here you'll be 'Oh, yes, that weirdo.' And apart from the embarrassment I'd feel for you, I'll be that weirdo's wife, which wouldn't please me much either. So make up your mind and say it right now. What are you? A girl or a weirdo?" "Ok," I said grudgingly. "No, I mean it. Say it! I want to hear sparkle and commitment! Sincere pleasure in what we're doing!" "I'm a girl!" I tried to squeal it enthusiastically. "Not like at the Health Club but really. And you'll do whatever you need to do to maintain that impression. Otherwise we might just as well go home now." "Oh yes!" I added. "Anything!" She smiled. "I almost believe you. Try to believe it yourself, sweetheart, and then everyone else will too. Here's your bra. Don't leave home without one. It really is yours. I'll tell you a secret. The girls back home bought it for you along with the blouse when they heard you were taking hormones and growing breasts, that you'd soon need it. I hid it. I didn't think you'd appreciate getting a bra for your birthday. This was puzzling. "Why did they think I was on hormones?" "Baby, they knew that transsexuals take hormones to become more womanly. And that's what they think you are, so that's what they thought you were doing. They want to help. Marnie was ready to give you injections -- 'They work faster' and with less stress to the system' is what she said -- but she settled by donating your first six month's supply of pills." "Great," was all I could say to that. "It is! It was! Very generous. Anyhow, Carrie, look at your chest and see for yourself. Even without your pills you'd have needed support by now, between your accumulated fatty tissue and your bust development exercises. You haven't noticed? You droop the way I do when you lean over forward. You hang down. And when you're wearing your leotard and doing straddle leaps, you bobble. You really do need a bra, missy. I've held back from saying so because I thought it would freak you out. But now it's necessary and appropriate, and this one's yours. Happy birthday, precious!" I wasn't sure how she meant that -- my birthday of a few months ago? The birthday today of a new female me? I took up the delicate, lacy concoction of elastic and satin and hesitated just a moment. This was heavy juju, this thing. Magic. When I put it on, would it actually turn me into a girl? I slipped my arms into the straps and straightened out the elastic band while Pam clipped me into it behind. Then she reached into each cup -- gently -- to pull my slack muscles and chest skin up and into it. And my God, I actually did have small boobs! "Very nice," Pam said, examining my new lace-frothed chest mounds. "Already more than I had when my first boyfriend first got up enough nerve to cop a feel." "I guess I really have retained body fat from last year, even apart from the pectoral muscle workouts," I said. "I'd never have guessed I could fill a bra this well." I looked down at my two swellings, a little embarrassed. But also, oddly, a little proud. In for as penny, in for a pound. If a job is worth doing, it's worth doing well. I can do this, I was thinking! This much of me is authentic, anyhow! "That's a 'B' cup, honey, and you do fill it. A little more growth there and we can borrow each other's bras. Have your nipples gotten as sensitive as mine yet?" With a sly grin she reached forward to cup my little breasts, each now securely held up and shaped to protrude forward. She lifted them slightly, then stroked each nipple lightly with her thumbs. Both at once. "Oooohhh!" Lightning! An intense erogenous jolt, and my whole body stiffened as pure joy coursed through it. "Oh!" I said again, startled, pulling back. "I ...! That was ...!" "My my," Pam said, grinning broadly. "Marnie was right. They are sensitized! My nipples get me going too, as you well know. How lovely! We're sisters under the skin that way too! Watch out for guys, baby, that's the first thing they'll try on you. As if by accident, to put you in the mood. You remember how you touched my nipple tips while helping me on with my coat on our second date? Accidentally on purpose? I remember! Now sit down here and let's find out what your inner girl looks like." She placed me down firmly at her make-up table, ignored my occasional feeble protests, and then rapidly covered my face with foundation, powder, blush, mascara, eye shadow, eyeliner, and lipstick, gazing intently at each of my features in turn as she embellished first one, then the next. "Marnie was right about what?" I asked as Pam worked. Some of what she'd said sounded as if she knew something I didn't. "That there'd be a net gain. That girls love having sensitive breasts. Hold still." The way she was talking raised a suspicion. She'd wondered if mine were as sensitive as hers 'yet.' An odd word to use. "Where are the pills Marnie donated?" I asked as casually as I could. "Do you still have them?" "Some of them. Let me do my job. Most important are the eyes. I'm emphasizing them for a babydoll look, to make them really large. For the whole rest of the evening, honey, whenever you look at anyone, even at me, stare wi