Valentine, Be Mine, Ch. 02 free porn video

Valentine, Be Mine, Ch. 02 By Cherysse St. Claire This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters herein described and persons living or dead is purely coincidental - except for the band; they rock. *** The disks sat benignly in a jumble next to me on the bed. Benignly? There was an aura of malevolence about them, like a coiled snake. I wasn't ready to deal with the issue, yet deal with it, I must. The problem wasn't going to go away of its own volition. It took some time to sift through the haphazard pile, sorting by date. I skipped the first few sessions, remembering the gist of those talks without having to view them again. Instead, I selected the recording of my first session under hypnosis. I had no trouble selecting the right one; I knew that date by heart. I involuntarily gasped when I saw the image of Bobby Valentine - a very different Bobby Valentine - supine, relaxed, and in 'full induction' on Joanna's couch. I quickly turned to the mirror over the dresser for confirmation. The features were similar, if I scrutinized them closely enough. There was that familiar symmetric, sculpted jawline. The cameras had always loved that smile. Well, not that smile; that new, dazzling smile could blind airline pilots seven miles up. The crystal-blue eyes were the same... sort of. There was a hint of a tuck, drawing the corners up and back. The nose was... smaller? Barbie-like? The lips were definitely fuller, more prominent now; so were the cheekbones. Okay; little changes, here and there, adding up to a beautiful whole. Everything else - the hair, makeup, clothes, curvaceous body with those prominent breasts - were completely different. At least I remembered the boob job. When had all these other changes taken place? Why? How could I have not noticed? Sure enough, Joanna had divined the subconscious memory of 'Evie' from my former self. Over the course of several sessions, her questions had probed his inner feelings about the femme incarnation that had once been. Had being a 'girl' in that long-ago time given him pleasure? He replied it did; as Evie, he had felt vibrant, alive, in his element - the center of attention. Had he done it since? No; he hadn't. How had he felt about that? He asserted he had felt somehow... diminished. His inner Evie had longed for release, to spread her wings, fly, and recapture the magic of that long-ago time, even as his conscious self blotted out its very existence. Why, Joanna had asked? If the experience had been that pleasurable, why had he tried so hard to suppress it? I squirmed on the bed, watching my other self squirm on the couch as he related the events of that fateful afternoon when my father discovered 'Evie'. The distress, fear, in my clone's voice was palpable. He described being physically hurled out the kitchen door, landing on his heinie on the grass, legs splayed. His body jerked involuntarily on the couch, in sync with the moment of impact. No youthful bones had been broken, but the die had been cast. He had hidden from his father's sight for the next two weeks. For the remainder of the time he lived under that roof, he - accent on he - had lived in fear of his father's mercurial rages. His relationship with the man had been poisoned for all time. So, too, was any possibility of sharing that part of himself with anyone else - for fear of inciting that same primal, murderous rage in them. I wondered at that moment if Joanna's probing of my deep-seated memories of 'Evie' during our sessions together had prompted my own un-forced recollections of her now. Was this supposed to be part of the therapy; a kind of 'timed-release' of my memories of her? More like a time bomb, I thought. As I was searching for the next disk in sequence, I realized something was wrong. There was a fourteen-day gap in dates between the disk I had just watched and the next one available. Had we skipped a week? No, I groaned inwardly; I lost a disk! I thought back to that little comedy of errors in Joanna's office; scrambling across the carpet to retrieve the fallen jewel boxes. Inspector Clouseau himself could not have done it more ineptly. Somehow, I had missed one disk. Perhaps it had come to rest under the desk or credenza, or skittered across the floor to a dark corner. Whatever the answer, I would just have to do without - and wonder what went on in that session. The next session, and those that followed, brought my heart into my throat. Joanna had begun to change 'Bobby' under hypnosis, reinforcing my subconscious desire to dress and act feminine with a series of post- hypnotic suggestions. First came the desire to wear lingerie. Body hair had never been an issue. Mama had taught me to keep my body clean-shaven when I began modeling. In order to save time and trouble, I had had my facial and body hair removed via laser when I started making real money. Joanna had commented when we first met. She thought my baby-smooth face and hairless body were "sexy". Next came the desire to have salon treatments; facials, eyebrow thinning and shaping, individual lash extensions and lash tinting, ear piercing, manicures and pedicures. At the same time, she convinced me I 'desired' to let my hair grow out. She had gradually phased in the passion to have longer, femininely shaped and polished nails, and to wear makeup. I was encouraged to want a more feminine wardrobe to match my lingerie and appearance. Again, it was phased in over time, a garment or two at a time, so as not to present a 'jolt to the system' for those around me - and, most likely, me. Once my hair was long enough, it became 'natural' for me to have it styled; first in a unisex fashion, gradually working it into a more openly feminine coif. The appearance of a bruised and bandaged 'Bobby' in a subsequent session was startling. Obviously, I had undergone the cosmetic surgical procedures I had just now detected in the mirror. Yet consciously, I remembered none of it. How does someone not remember undergoing surgery? For that matter, how could I not be aware of the way my voice changed over time, as evidenced by the recordings I was watching? I noticed something in one of the later disks. I had to go back to the earlier ones and compare to be certain. There was no question; the rest of my body had been changing along with my appearance and wardrobe. The new, more form-fitting clothing made it obvious I had lost weight. My waist was slimmer. My breasts, hips and buttocks were filling out, becoming rounder. My wife had obviously put me on a regimen of female hormones, probably androgen blockers as well. That explained why I never got hard anymore. Wait a minute! I frantically reached under my skirt, into my panties and explored my scrotum. They were still there, but so much smaller than I remembered - just like my flaccid penis - I couldn't help but shed tears. I had been so stunned with the visual evidence of my progressively- feminine appearance, I had stopped the playback and popped each disk out as Joanna began to bring me out of induction. I was anxious to get on to the next session and see what new changes had taken place. Finally, I watched an entire recording, beginning to end. At the end of the session, as she was wakening me, Joanna performed a little 'cleanup'. She emphasized, after carrying out my latest instructions, I should feel perfectly natural about myself. There would be nothing different or unusual about me. I had always been that way, and she and everyone around me loved me the way I was. In the case of my surgeries, she actually suppressed my memories of them, as well as the post-op bruising and discomfort. Perfectly natural? For the second time that day, my stomach was a heartbeat away from turning over. I felt like I had been raped. I still harbored subconscious desires to dress up? Fine! I knew there was nothing unique about that. I had been around that sort of thing for years; the fashion industry was a lightning rod for closet- and not-so- closet cases. If Joanna had wanted to resolve some inner conflict of mine by having me dress up with her at home, just like Janie had, I would have been okay with that. All she had to do was be open and honest with me, as she had promised. I might have even enjoyed it. Why not? I had before with my sister. But this.... Of one thing I was absolutely certain; I had never consciously asked for such a metamorphosis, let alone one taken to this extreme. She had changed me on her own volition, used me when it suited her, strung me along by maintaining the fa?ade of a loving, sharing marriage - while fucking 'Jake' on the side all the while. No wonder she had always been so wet! The memory of eagerly giving her oral sex when she came home, dripping wet with 'anticipation', revulsed me. Why would she even bother continuing this charade of a relationship? I was nowhere near done viewing the session disks. At that point, I didn't think I had the stomach for more - ever. Of course, there were still the 'Jake sessions'.... Did I really want to inflict that upon myself as well? I had already seen it once; live, in Technicolor, and in my face. Did I now need to know every sordid detail? Grrrrrrrrr... yes, dammit; I did! I steeled myself, picked up the first of the Jake disks, placed it in the tray and shut the drawer. The clock on the computer taskbar read 8:35 PM. The DVD player window came alive with Joanna's image, speaking directly into the camera.... The clock behind the bar read 10:45. In my spandex siren suit and platform sandals, I was more than a little overdressed for the casual, jeans-and-a-top crowd at Burbank Bar & Grill, but so what? They were packed in, shoulder-to-shoulder, as was the norm on any given Friday night, let alone this one. The brickwork-and-oak d?cor and large crowd of this second-floor-walk-up nightspot were exactly what I needed just then; comforting, familiar, anonymous. Video Star, an 80's-tribute band (rose-colored Granny glasses, skinny ties, vests, fedoras, shaggy hair) were in their accustomed place on stage, belting out early MTV hits. The main room was festooned with paper hearts and balloons. A roving flower vendor was doing land-office business in single red roses. Shawna, the cute, petite blonde bartender with bare midriff and about one percent body fat, took my order for something simple and potent; a Meyer's and Coke. I had given thought to something a little more exotic, like a Mai Tai or Pi?a Colada, but BBG isn't that kind of place. Martinis, whether flavored or traditional, just made me ill. Beer? Bleeeech! Nor was I in the mood for champagne after what had transpired earlier. I settled into a table, gracefully draped one leg over the other, and sipped my drink. My choice of location was strategic. I had perfect sight lines for the stage - and everyone in the main room could see me. Of course, in any bar, a beautiful, provocatively-attired, unattached female (or reasonable facsimile) is gonna get noticed. I was on my second round, and an empty stomach, and already a bit fuzzy around the edges. The rose appeared under my nose as if by magic. "The last train for L.A. left three hours ago and Godot phoned in his regrets. If you were waiting for either one, don't." I smirked at the flower dangling in my immediate vision, thinking: LAME, lame, lame-lame-lame. "Very funny," I responded softly, lifting my gaze to the source of the obvious pick-up line. "You are a regular com... ediannnn...." Since beginning my new job, working around all those buff bodies had driven me to distraction. Their constant come-on's only made matters worse. I had already blown (no pun intended) my chance with Matt Michaels earlier. Then, there was this guy... "Vince," he offered, holding out his hand. "Evie," I replied absently, smiling and extending my own. He took it gently, turned it over, and kissed it. I shivered involuntarily. Vince was certainly a prime cut. Standing well over six feet, his chiseled good looks, dark hair, piercing gray eyes and body- builder physique were easily the equal of, if not superior to, Matt's. "Dance?" he inquired, still holding my hand. The band was thumping through Soft Cell's Tainted Love. How appropriate; tonight, I really did "feel I have to (bomp-bomp) get a-wayyy...." I gave my shoulders a little shrug. "Okay," I responded dreamily. He helped me to my feet. Even in my six-inch platform sandals, I had to look up to him. So, what's wrong with making a little spectacle of myself from time to time? As it happens, I was taught to dance this way. My brain isn't even part of the equation, especially when I have been drinking. Put me on a dance floor and my body goes on auto-pilot. It is the result of all those long hours spent in Ballet and Interpretive Dance classes when I was a kid. The kicker was, Janie got out of it because the dance classes conflicted with Field Hockey practice. What would dear old Dad have thought of me now? Vince and I began by dancing a discreet distance apart. Bad move; the dance floor was just as crowded as the main aisle. When the flying elbows to the back and ribs got to be too much, we moved closer to each other, then closer still. My body was pressed up against his as we shimmied and shook. By that time, the band had launched into Duran Duran's Rio. Our two bodies were moving together as one. Vince's hands clasped my tush, pulling me into him. My hands traveled freely down the length of his body. I couldn't deny Vince was hot. He was making me hot, too! If anyone watching us on the dance floor took exception to our little 'show', no one said so. About the only ones who weren't watching were the bartenders. They were in their own little world, serving drinks. You know how guys are: a hot chic on the dance floor, all boobs and buns, in a short skirt, stockings and high heels? I didn't need to find a stick to beat them off; there was plenty of 'wood' all around me. The band invited us onstage for Rick Springfield's Jessie's Girl. I was facing out toward the crowd, next to the lead singer. Vince was behind me with his arms wrapped loosely around my waist. That left me free to move to the beat - and rub up against his body. BBG has one of those stage-cam setups. Anyone who can't see the stage through the crush of bodies can watch what's going on via strategically-placed big-screen plasma monitors. So, how does a slightly-drunk, maxed-out-femme attention junkie feel about dancing onstage, in the arms of a certifiable hunk of U.S. Prime, with every eye in the place riveted on her every move? Heh, heh, heh.... Time for the big finish - as in, finish him off. The band obliged with Robert Palmer's Addicted to Love. Oh, yeah - you think you're "immune to the stuff", Big Boy? Huh-uh. I painted myself to my dance partner, arms draped loosely over his shoulders, grinding pussy-to-crotch to that throbbing base line, gazing up at him with desire in my eyes - right there on stage, in front of God and everyone. If anyone present went home with dry undies, they were either dead or Gay. The house lights came up at one-forty; twenty minutes before close. We had heeded Mother Nature's call a bit earlier to beat the last-minute dash for the bathrooms. I had a pretty good idea what was coming. Hell, I was going to make it happen! I had a single-application tube of K-Y in my purse and put it to good use. We said our good-nights to the band and staff, then made our way to the stairs. I stumbled on the top step. Before I could pitch forward, Vince swept me up in his powerful arms. My arms were around his neck before I even realized I was doing so. We descended the two flights of carpeted steps just like that, gazing steadily into each other's eyes. BBG's street-level entrance is sandwiched between a cellular phone store and a beauty salon. The parking lot around the corner on Olive Avenue is bedlam at closing time. However, there is a pedestrian companionway between buildings a few doors up the block on San Fernando Road. It leads to both the BBG lot and the parking structure on Orange Grove, but is rarely traveled this long after the stores and restaurants close. Most of the bar patrons simply go around the corner on Olive because it is the shorter, more direct route to the parking lot. At two AM, there are only a few drunken revelers on the sidewalk and fewer still cars on the street. In no time, my back was against that cool brick alley wall, with Vince's tongue probing my tonsils. His hands were inside my blouse, cupping my breasts and pinching my bullet-hard nipples. My hands were tugging at his belt buckle, frantically attempting to get his pants down. A huge log had wedged itself inside the leg of his Levi's and I desperately wanted to free it. And then it was free. Did I say huge? It dwarfed my hand as I held it. I couldn't even get my fingertips completely around it. My brain went numb in sheer awe. My body did not; I found myself sinking to my knees. In moments, I was eyeball-to-'eyeball' with his monster dong. My mouth opened wide and my tongue flicked out, lightly lapping the bulbous head. After a few minutes of administering this exquisite torture, causing Vince to moan animatedly, I leaned forward and inhaled his big pipe. Somehow, my body knew exactly what to do. His first orgasm blasted a huge load of jizz down my throat. I swallowed rapidly, greedily, determined to catch every drop. He didn't shrink a millimeter! He seized me under the armpits, lifted me effortlessly to my feet, then spun me around to face the wall. I braced myself with my hands, arms extended straight and locked legs spread wide. I had a moment of dread as he ripped away my tiny bikini panties, revealing my secret. There was silence as he processed this new, unexpected data. Then his gigantic fuckpole lurched between my thighs. "You are just full of surprises, aren't you, Slut?" he growled in my ear. I gasped, both at the unexpected verbal taunt and the implication my status hadn't diminished his desire for me one iota. I took it to the next level. "What about it, Stud?" I hissed. "Are you going to talk me to death or make me your bitch?" "Talk you to death?" Vince snapped. "Talk about this!" My love canal was lubed and waiting. That, plus the copious amounts of saliva and newly-secreted pre-cum on Vince's tool allowed him to cram his entire length into me in one mighty thrust. I howled in shock and surprise - surprise that, rather than ripping me apart, it felt wonderful to be taken so forcefully. Take me, he did; again and again. "Harder," I moaned, my voice vibrating in time with the impact of his thrusts. "Harder! Is that all you've got for me, you wus? I thought you were a real man, not some limp-dick poser." My taunts achieved the desired effect. He slammed his massive tool into me unmercifully. If my arms had not been fully extended, elbows locked, he would have thrust me into the wall face-first. I grunted gutturally with each downstroke. "Limp... dick?" he spat between thrusts. "Is... this... hard... enough... for... you... Cunt... or... do... you... want... it... harder?" My knees buckled from the force of that last thrust. He grabbed me by the hips and held me up, thrusting my body backwards to meet his battering ram. My vision dimmed. I heard an intense roaring in my ears. My body spasmed violently, as though I had been caught up in some monumental earthquake. I felt a tiny amount of fluid dribble from my limp clitty. At the same time, Vince's cock erupted within me. He came so hard, I honestly thought the torrent would gush through my body and out my mouth. Somehow, he found the stamina to hold us both upright, leaning against the wall for support. Neither of us moved for long seconds while we recovered strength and wits. Between the gorgeous man, his magnificent cock, and the danger of being caught in such a risky, very public venue, I had cum harder than ever before in my life. I leaned back, put my hand behind his neck and pulled his face to me. I locked lips in a searing kiss, thrusting my tongue as far into his mouth as I could reach. "Happy Valentine's Day, Lover," I murmured after withdrawing my assaulting muscle. "It was one of my better ones," he agreed glibly. I punched him playfully in the shoulder. "Better?" I growled. "It better have been your best ever, or so help me, I will rip it out at the root!" "Well, you were pretty good," he admitted, smirking, "and you definitely showed spirit...." My hand closed menacingly around the base of his softening tool. My nails dug into the tender flesh. ".. .andoncarefulconsiderationyouwereabsolutelypositivelythebestIhaveeverhad ," he finished in a single breath. "Thank you," I chirped sarcastically. Vince walked me to my car. The lot was still flush with people trying to extricate their automobiles from the tangle of jockeying sheetmetal. I am certain they could tell at a glance what we had been up to, between our disheveled appearance, the way I hung all over him like a cheap suit - and the rivulet of cum snaking down my inner thigh. They might have gotten an additional clue when, right in front of them, I casually tucked my torn panties into his shirt pocket, along with a business card on which I had scribbled my cell number. "Will you be all right driving home, Evie?" he asked thoughtfully. I rested my hand on his cheek. "There is nothing like a fast, frantic fuck to sober a girl up," I purred. "I'll be fine, but I'm not going home. I'm renting a room for at least the weekend, possibly longer." I told him the name and location of the place I was staying. His eyes lit up immediately. "I know that place," he exclaimed "I've stayed there myself - for an hour or two, anyway." An evil gleam filled his eyes. "You mean you are a..." he began. I winked and pulled his face to mine, rubbing my lips back and forth across his. "I am this weekend... Sugar," I interrupted softly. "You want a piece of that action? Think of tonight as a free sample." His cock lurched to life in his jeans. I smiled coyly. Vince had a kink - and I was all over it like white on rice. I was thrilled with my new- found power. "Absolutely, I want a piece," he confirmed with a smirk. "Call me tomorrow and I'll... pencil you in," I cooed. Since Vince might be calling me, I turned on my cell phone on my way back to the motel. Hmmm; twenty-three new voicemail messages - all from the same familiar number. They'll keep! I set my ringer to silent mode, reclaimed my car and left. I awoke about ten to a buzzing in my ear. I became aware of my unfamiliar surroundings and just lay there, trying to get oriented. My God; what on earth had I done the night before? Oh, I remembered that part, all right; the drinking, dirty dancing, and every juicy, squishy, pounding, thundering detail of the magnificent fuck afterwards. I just couldn't believe I had done that. What could have possessed me to be such an absolute slut, in public - with a man? I wasn't that drunk. How had I even gotten to BBG? Not only could I not remember driving there, I couldn't remember making the decision to go. The flashing light in my peripheral vision caught my attention. The buzzing was my cell phone, still set for silent ring, vibrating across the wood tabletop. This time, it wasn't Joanna. "Hello?" "Bobby? This is Helen Henderson, returning your call. It's been a while. How are you?" My heart skipped a beat. Helen Henderson was a living legend, both in legal circles and to the public at large. You will never meet a more tenacious, go-for-the-jugular adversary in a court of law. In her earlier years, her image was that of a fashion plate in long leather trench coat, stylishly coiffed hair and red lipstick. She was still a real 'looker' - until you crossed swords with her in the courtroom. If there was a high-profile case involving divorce, spousal-abuse, - battering, or even -murder, Helen was usually right in the middle of it. It was common knowledge she had a permit to carry a concealed weapon - to protect herself from her clients' enraged ex-husbands, who had tasted her legal wrath. "Helen! Thank you for returning my call - and on a Saturday, no less. I'm surprised you even remember me, much less called me back on a weekend." There was silence for a moment. "Bobby, are you all right? You sound... different." Damn! How do I explain my changed voice without sounding like a wing nut? If I can just talk her into a face-to-face.... "I just have a touch of laryngitis, Helen. Come to think of it, I had no voice at all when we met at L.A. Fashion Week two years ago. You asked me out for lunch - and ordered chicken soup for me, wasn't it? I never had an opportunity to thank you verbally - Mom." We shared a laugh over that remembered incident and my good-natured jab at her display of maternal instinct towards a guy the other fashionistas were trying to lure between the sheets. "So, Bobby, how is that lovely wife of yours?" It was my turn to pause. I took a deep breath. "That's why I called, Helen," I spoke as evenly as I could. "I need to see you - professionally." "Oh, no," she groaned, "not you, too! You and Joanna were such a lovely couple. Bobby, you know I don't usually represent husbands." I was waiting for that. "This is really complicated," I began, "and not something I can explain over the phone. If we can meet in person, I think I can convince you my case is exactly what your practice is all about. All I ask is that you keep an open mind. I will trust that your love of the law and sense of justice outweigh any pre-conceived notions you might have... based on gender." I was taking an awful chance with that last admonition. It was like waving a red flag in the face of the nation's most prominent feminist/attorney, to whom 'Thou shalt not abuse thy wife' was the only commandment. Perhaps I had piqued her curiosity. Perhaps I had shamed her. Perhaps she had been more attracted to me that long-ago meeting than she had let on. To my astonishment and delight, she agreed to meet me for lunch - at noon. Sure, no problem. I'll just slip into something fresh from my wardrobe - back at the house, where Joanna will be able to sink her hooks into me. I surveyed the damage to the suit and blouse I had worn the night before. Despite the frantic sex in the alley, after brushing off the back with my hand, I decided it really wasn't in bad shape. The stockings were a different story and, of course, I would need another pair of panties and makeup. After showering, dressing, and fluffing up my permed hair, I had enough time to stop at the mall on my way to lunch. A whirlwind trip through Macy's, followed by a stop in the public washroom, did the trick. Damn the stares; full speed ahead! Helen was already seated when I arrived. The hostess had given her a high-backed booth against the wall. Perfect, I thought. We will need the privacy. I strode confidently towards her, smiling. She noted my approach, perhaps with the slightest hint of amusement for a young woman who had yet to learn to dress appropriately for daytime. Then, she gazed past me - towards the door, obviously looking for the 'me' she was expecting to see. I planted myself right in front of her and extended my hand. "Helen?" I opened. The expression on her face was somewhere between curiosity and confusion. The attorney gazed up at me, trying to associate a name with the face. "Shall we order the chicken soup for old times' sake?" I teased. It was just like in the cartoons. Helen's eyes nearly bugged out of her skull as she took me in from head to toe, then back again. "Bob-by?" she responded haltingly. "In the flesh," I acknowledged demurely - at least, as 'demure' as I could muster, given my anything-but appearance. "Perhaps a bit more flesh than you remember. Sorry; I didn't have time to shop for a more appropriate outfit and get here on time. I'm sure you are a little... perplexed." "Your gift for understatement is exceeded only by your appearance," my companion replied with a twinkle in her eyes. "I suppose I should start by declaring you look... lovely, if a bit overdressed." "If you will allow me, I will explain everything," I promised. "You have my undivided attention," she proclaimed, trying mightily not to smirk. "I wouldn't miss this for the world." The smile left her face shortly after the waiter left with our order. I elaborated on the past few months of my life, based on what I remembered and what I had learned in the past twenty-four hours. I had come to the luncheon armed with Joanna's laptop and a couple of disks from my 'therapy', plus the second of the 'Jake' disks. Our salads were left largely untouched as I played the recorded sessions for her. She strove to keep her face neutral, but the clench of her jaw gave her away. When the playback concluded, she gazed into my eyes with steely determination in hers. "You knew nothing about what she was doing to you?" Helen inquired carefully. "She never cleared it with you beforehand?" "Other than having me sign the release authorizing her to use hypnotherapy, she wouldn't tell me anything," I confirmed. "She said she would share everything with me later - when she thought I was ready." "I apologize, Bobby," the attorney stated quietly. "I am so used to dealing with thugs, I sometimes forget abuse and betrayal can be a two- way street. This is the most despicable professional and personal betrayal I have ever witnessed. 'Malfeasance' doesn't even begin to describe what Joanna did to you. At the very least, she should lose her license to practice psychiatry for this. You say she also recorded her trysts with this 'Jake'?" "Yes. I brought one of them with me as well," I responded. "Would you like to watch it?" "After seeing this much, I don't know if I have the stomach for it," Helen attested, "but yes, I need to see that, too. Keep the volume down, please, and turn the screen away from the rest of the room. I don't want anyone to think I come here to watch porn. Wait a minute. I need to go to the Ladies room first. I'm sure I won't want to be interrupted, once we begin. Would you like to come with me?" I shook my head. "No, I'm fine," I replied. "I'll just wait for you here." Helen made her way towards the alcove at the back of the room. I shook my head ruefully, realizing I had just committed a cardinal sin for ladies dining out. Well, I wasn't exactly used to this sort of thing.... It occurred to me; since I had not yet viewed this particular 'Jake' video, I had no idea what he and Joanna were doing on it. What if it was something really offensive - or if my wife had somehow sucked me into the action without my conscious knowledge? I didn't feel secure enough in my relationship with Helen to risk having to explain what might, at first glance, appear to be my willing participation in this nightmare. I decided I'd better pre-screen at least the first few minutes while she was in the Ladies room, just to make sure. I turned the screen to face towards the back of the booth. I queued up the disk and Joanne's face came into view.... It was almost three PM. I was pacing back and forth in my little motel room, clad only in corset, stockings and heels and driven to distraction. Where was he? I called him a half-hour ago. What was taking him so damn long? The knock on the door made me jump with a start. Finally! I raced to the door and flung it open, banging it against the wall. Vince didn't even have time to say "Hello" before I leapt into his arms, wrapped my legs around his hips and my arms around his neck. I kissed him so savagely, I threatened to draw blood. In mere moments, I was on my back on the bed with him on top of me. I thought he shut the door behind him, but I really didn't care. I couldn't get his throbbing manhood inside my love canal fast enough to suit me. We fucked like animals until daylight - and his stamina - faded. It wasn't enough! I dressed hurriedly as my erstwhile lover lay passed out from exhaustion on the bed. I grabbed my purse and keys and glanced briefly at his supine form as I rushed out the door. Wimp, I sneered. If you're not man enough to satisfy me, I'll find someone who is. Then again, I had ridden him hard and put him up wet; perhaps I should cut him some slack. Nah! The stores were still open - at least, the ones I wanted. After having to leave my home so suddenly, I found myself with an embarrassing lack of wardrobe - especially, the right wardrobe. I was setting a mantrap and had to have the right 'bait'. I shopped several specialty apparel and shoe stores along the Boulevard until closing time, having to make several trips back to the car to stow my treasures in the trunk. I found something I absolutely adored at Taboo, my last stop of the evening. After trying it on, I examined myself in the three-way mirror, went to the counter to pay for it, then returned to the dressing room to ratchet up my makeup to match. I strutted saucily out the door as the associate locked up behind me. The tight, stiff, unyielding black patent corset dress extended from just above my areolas to my knees, hobbling my gait and forcing me to undulate my firm, rounded tush to compensate. My boobies were pressed up and together, forming a deep chasm of cleavage. The clerk had cinched down the corset laces as tightly as they would go, then tucked the ends inside. I could barely breathe, but my hand-span waist more than made up for it. The seams of my sheer, jet-black stockings traced a straight, unerring path directly to my love nest. My new black patent sandals were little more than a platform with six-inch stiletto heels and a series of thin straps that wound around my legs and buckled at the top of my calves. I felt like a million bucks - and looked like I could command at least that price. There is something about a busty blonde in tight patent leather and stilettos that seems to reduce normal, reasonably-articulate men to babbling blobs of jelly. That old axiom about the eyes being "a window to the soul" obviously had not been coined in a pick-up bar. All I saw reflected in those eyes were just so many throbbing dicks, demanding release. So what if the first two backed out when they found out about my 'plumbing problem'? There were a lot more where they came from. The third time was definitely the charm. This guy was handsome, well- dressed, and didn't mind spending money to show a girl a good time. The stigma of champagne was still fresh in my mind, but I forced myself (yeah, right; I forced myself to drink Dom) and had a good time. After a set of close-dancing - allowing me to check out the goods - Mr. Right Now and I hopped into our cars and sped back to the motel. I didn't expect Vince to be there, and he wasn't. At that moment, I really didn't care. If he had been, I might have been able to give him a little extra added visual incentive to do a better job next time. I smirked at that thought. R.N. might not have been the biggest stallion in the stable (after Vince, I was a little jaded), but he was a thoroughbred and went the distance. I was more stunned than anything when he laid three hundred- dollar bills on the dresser as he headed for the door. I had only hinted about it with Vince in a teasing way and hadn't mentioned it at all with my 'date'. It had never really occurred to me.... Still, I wasn't going to turn it down. If for no other reason, I was anticipating an industrial-strength legal bill. I murmured my appreciation, accompanied by a tight hug, deep kiss, and business card. Damn, I was going to need more of those - without the company logo. After a good night's sleep, I examined the wreckage in the bathroom mirror as the shower water was warming up. Dammit, Bobbi; you did it again! I didn't even remember saying good-bye to Helen at lunch. Suddenly, I was back in my motel room, screwing anything in pants. At least I remembered that part. I couldn't honestly say it had been unpleasant; not by a long shot. Still.... I came out of the bathroom, one towel wrapped around my body and another around my hair, and checked my cell phone. This time, the messages were equally divided between Joanna and Helen. I called Helen. "Bobby!" she exclaimed. "What happened to you? You were stunned speechless when I returned to the table. After seeing what Joanna and Jake were doing, I couldn't say I blamed you, so I kept my mouth shut and watched with you. When you slipped out of the booth at the end, I thought it had been too much for you and you had to get some air. You never came back and I couldn't find you anywhere in the restaurant. Was it that upsetting?" "Honestly, Helen," I admitted, "I don't even remember watching the damn thing. I was discussing my situation with you, then you went to the Ladies room. The next thing I remember was being back in my room and... well, we can go into that another time." "Do you have these blackouts frequently?" she asked. "Has anything bad happened during one of these episodes?" "You are beginning to sound like Joanna," I replied testily, then apologized for it. "I don't really remember having them at all until now. As for 'anything bad' happening... let's just call it different from what I am used to. I can't... don't feel comfortable discussing it over the phone. I am really sorry for leaving you so suddenly. Are we okay?" "I'm not angry," she confirmed, "just concerned for you - as a client and friend. Can you come to my home this afternoon? I already have some thoughts about the case and want to share them with you. After yesterday, I'm a little worried about you, too. I want to see with my own eyes you are all right. Maybe you can dress a bit more... casually than yesterday?" I rang Helen's doorbell at two. This time, I was more appropriately attired. The "V" of my clingy sweater showed just a hint of cleavage. The new jeans were cuffed to mid-calf, showing off my knee boots. If she took issue with the four-inch heels, she didn't say so. In fact, her smile was anything but off-putting. She slipped her arm through mine and escorted me to the living room. The computer and DVD's were on the coffee table. "I took care of your laptop for you," she offered. "I made copies of the disks, too. I would appreciate you making copies of the others, as well. We will need the originals as 'best evidence' - whether we can actually use them or not. I have to tell you up front: we will have admissibility problems with them in court. Technically, you obtained them through commission of a crime; breaking into Joanna's office. Legal precedent views them as 'fruit of the poisoned tree'. We might be able to get them admitted in the divorce action, but probably not if we pursue her criminally. As cock-eyed as it may sound, it might also be interpreted as violating doctor-patient privilege by introducing them. "We might be able to plead extenuating circumstances, given the gravity of the result of her actions. We can also plead your lack of consent for her 'treatment' beyond the hypnotherapy. Joanna would have to produce documents or some other proof that you authorized it. Do you remember signing either consent for surgery or assigning her power of medical attorney?" I cringed at the thought. "Not consciously," I responded gloomily, "but I probably didn't read the consent for hypnosis as thoroughly as I should have. I mean, she was my wife; of course I trusted her. She might have snuck something into the fine print. Also, who knows what she had me sign while I was under hypnosis?" "Actually, we do," Helen asserted, "or will. The recordings themselves will tell us that." "Maybe not," I replied ruefully. "I dropped the stack of disks while I was in Joanna's office. When I was reviewing them later, I discovered one is missing." "We will deal with that when and if the need arises," Helen asserted. "That you, the patient, give us permission to use the recordings may also work in our favor - or against us, depending on the existence of those other documents. Still, we have to be prepared for the likelihood the disks will be thrown out during Discovery. "Without them, or any other evidence, it becomes a case of 'he said, she said' as to what agreement existed between you and Joanna about your case. She still may face punitive action from the A.P.A and/or state review boards, but that is administrative, not criminal. Pending that, she can defend herself in court by arguing your 'diminished capacity', hiding behind her professional credentials. I don't think I need tell you how much weight her testimony will carry before any judge or jury. She would likely expedite the divorce proceedings for exactly that reason. She could even turn it around and argue the divorce is your fault. Let's face it, Bobby; in the eyes of Society, this is not exactly normal behavior for a man." I hid my face in my hands and shook my head. "Who are you telling?" I sighed. "There are a couple of ways we can proceed," Helen continued. "First, we find independent corroboration; something or someone who can attest to the content of the disks without relying on the disks themselves." "Well," I observed, "there is this 'Jake' guy, of course - and Joyce." "Joyce?" Helen inquired. "Joanna's secretary," I replied. "As far as I know, she was never in the inner office during our sessions." "What about notes?" Helen prompted. My face brightened. "Joanna records her notes on her laptop," I declared. "They have been here all the time. All I have to do is sign on as Administrator, change her password, and we will have access to them." Helen shook her head. "Same problem," she dismissed. "You obtained the computer fraudulently, at the same time as the disks. It will be thrown out, too." "But if she had Joyce transcribe her notes...." I offered. For the first time that afternoon, Helen smiled. "I'm beginning to like this 'Joyce' as a potential witness," she murmured, "hostile or otherwise. I'll have my investigator look into her and see what we can dig up. If we can prove the existence of transcribed notes, we can subpoena them and use them as corroboration. Also, if we have the notes of the missing session, we may at least have a heads-up on what she might throw at us from it." "There might be something else we can do with the information we already have," I suggested. "The notes might offer names of colleagues or other people she involved in my transformation. My surgeries didn't happen by themselves and Joanna certainly wouldn't attempt to perform them. She had to involve somebody." Helen beamed and took my hand in hers. "You really should consider going to law school," she gushed. "That is brilliant! There will be a record of your procedures somewhere, even if she tried to keep it under the table. We'll use the recordings to establish a timeline of everything that was done to you. Then, all we have to do is dig deeply enough. If we can uncover even one name we can link directly to one or more of your procedures, we can leverage him - or her - with the threat of prosecution. We are not completely without resources in this fight; it's just going to be a struggle." "Speaking of resources," I voiced delicately. "I'm sure you realize Joanna has all the money in our relationship. I don't even have my career anymore, because of all this. She has me working for an adult video company. I know how that is going to look to a judge and jury, on top of everything else. I don't expect you to take my case pro bono, but it might be a while before..." "Let's not even discuss that right now," Helen interrupted, patting my hand. Bobby, I went to law school to right what I perceived to be a terrible wrong; some horrendous abuses women have suffered at the hands of men and, by extension, at the hands of the law. I've done some good along the way and put some real monsters behind bars, where they belong. I feel good about that. "I have also participated in what can only be described as exercises in spite and malice, waged by spoiled, whiny, egotistical brats who ought to know better. That isn't what I got into law for. I don't have to agree with it. I certainly don't have to like it. I just have to fight for my client; that's my job. I win a lot more often than I lose. I feel good about that, even when I can't feel good about who or what I'm fighting for. "You have been abused in a way I can't even conceive. It would be one thing if Joanna had done this because it was something you both wanted and agreed to. If that had been the case, I would be very happy for both of you and wish you all future happiness. But for her to do this to you without your permission, in such a way that you weren't even aware it had been done.... Bobby, this is exactly why I wanted to practice law in the first place. It will be gratifying to feel good about what I do for the right reasons again." The attorney gazed at me thoughtfully for a moment. "Bobby," she spoke quietly. "What do you want from all of this?" I sat, stunned. "I hadn't really thought that far," I confirmed. "I want... something. I'm not really sure." "Do you want to go back?" she asked point-blank. "To Joanna?" I asked incredulously. "No," she responded, "to you; the way you were before all this." I looked down at myself, then at her, blankly. "The reason I asked," Helen continued, "is to prepare you for a couple of possibilities. There is a big difference between what we know - what is obvious to anyone who looks at you - and what we can prove 'beyond a reasonable doubt' in a court of law. Based on the evidence we currently have, we may not be able to get a criminal conviction. Absent that, one possible scenario is, we file a civil action where the standards of evidence are less restrictive. We may get her to agree to change you back as part of a settlement, although the overall settlement might be far less than you deserve. Again, the issue turns on admissibility of the disks and/or outside corraboration. One other possible scenario is, you will get nothing more than the money you have already transferred from your joint accounts. If she chooses to go 'scorched earth', she may even demand that back." I just stared at the coffee table. "As your attorney," she continued, "I need to point something out. I have been involved in a few transgender cases before. Usually, it was an issue of basic rights; the right to have a job, a home, a life or freedom from harassment. Once, I represented the family of a T-girl who was murdered for being 'queer'. All of that was an uphill battle, fighting societal prejudice against transgenders. I have never represented anyone who didn't know she was transitioning, and had to prove she didn't know. I don't know if a precedent even exists. The odds of winning anything for you in court are slim." "She?" I repeated guardedly. Helen took my hand and clasped it between both of hers. "Yes, Bobby; she. I think we both better get used to that idea - for now, anyway. We can hardly deny it, can we? As your friend, there is one possible scenario I didn't mention. As an officer of the court, I can have no part in it. The disks can be used in another way. If you were to threaten to go public, either through the media or the Internet, she would have to settle - equitably - to protect her professional reputation. These disks could so poison the waters against her, her practice would evaporate overnight, not to mention what the review boards would do to her. It may not be the most satisfying justice, but it may be the best we can obtain." "Blackmail," I stated flatly. "In so many words," she confirmed. "I can't even begin to tell you what your life would be like if you went public." I nodded slowly, seeing the wisdom of that observation. "Let me also say this, as your friend," she added. "Even if we did secure the funds to change you back as part of a settlement, there is no guarantee you would get there; not to where you were. The hair and nails would be easy enough to fix; the face, less so. A plastic surgeon could remove the implants, even the underlying breast tissue, but I don't know how masculine your physique could be made. Please don't be upset when I tell you; you never were Mr. Olympia, you know? If your chemical castration has become profound, you may regain limited male function at best - or none at all. Again, I am not an expert, but the odds of you fathering a child at this point are functionally non-existent." "I never really planned on offering stud service," I noted bravely. Helen gazed at me intently. "Then let me say this," she continued softly. "Win, lose, or draw, whatever settlement we obtain, you may want to consider staying as you are, or even... moving on." My eyes widened. She held up one hand momentarily to silence my objections, then returned it to holding mine. "As I mentioned," she reminded, "you were never the most masculine of men. In fact, you were really pretty. That is not a put-down; some women like that in a man. Now, like this..." She hesitated a moment, either trying to summon the right words or the resolve to utter them. "... you are beautiful, exquisite. A legion of women would kill to have what you have now. I can only imagine how this messes with your identity, your sense of self. I am not even going to ask how it has changed your sexuality. The point is, all of that can be dealt with." "So," I summed flippantly, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it?" Helen smiled wanly. "Something like that." "Some women like this?" I inquired, seeking reassurance, if nothing else. Helen's eyes sparkled. "Trust me," she purred. I've heard that before....