Anthea s baby 1
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If The Heels Fit free porn video
This was originally posted, by me, on StorySite. I picked it up, did a
little editing, some re-writing, and here it is. I hope you enjoy
If The Heels Fit
by Anne O'Nonymous
Tap, Tap, Tap.
Hello darkness, my old friend - I've come to visit you again.
The blackened room had one occupant, almost. Ken's mind was not in that
dark area; it was miles away. An opened, almost full, bottle of "Black
and White" sat on a small table to his right, an unused glass beside it.
A question took form in his mind as to just how much of that bottle, plus
a few "sleeping pills," would it take to end it all. Could he get up
enough nerve to commit that "parting of the ways" act of finality?
"Why is it as children we play games being grown-up, but as adults we
can't play at being children?" Ken mused, sitting, slowly rocking,
staring out a window. Cars moved, their headlights dancing a soundless
tango across his ceiling, and people strolled the streets, the city came
alive through its citizens, but Ken felt partially dead inside. He wanted
to play at being something, anything other than what he was. His
perception was clouded by a depression starting that afternoon, and he
could not shake it off. The inability to be a "man" led to disgust, and
then depression; inevitably followed by a willingness to do anything to
end that pain of denial of one's self.
Depressions aren't evil, good or bad! They keep us from getting an
overblown ego. We take the hopelessness we feel, look at it, decide what
to do about it, do it and move on - end of story: finis. Then, there are
those depressions that shake you to the core of your being. Challenge you
to say what and who you are, and when you don't know the answers, make
you find them. That is a journey of discovery, and you may not like, or
even accept, what you find, but you can change - the trick is in knowing
what you must, or should, change!
Then again, what if you have no ego?
A current project being handled at the office had taken days, and he just
couldn't get a handle on what the "customer" wanted. Mixed signals from
copy, art and editorial came in, consequently he was trying to please too
many. One would approve, one would want changes, and the other just
didn't have a clue. "It was his fault" they all seemed to imply.
Rap, rap, rap.
The door was starting to bother him. He wished the person would go away
and leave him to his self-imposed misery. "What was he?" That was a
question he repeatedly asked! We all want to be somebody - important,
rich, famous, even just a "15 minutes of fame" - only he wanted to be a
man, not this . . . this thing that he couldn't (or shouldn't)
comprehend.
Oh, people have their apparent places - women in one area, men in
another. On the other hand, he had no clue as to where he was in the
scheme of things. He had a nice flat chest, no hair; long hair on his
head, none on the arms and legs; and, dolls - now other than G.I. Joes,
what real man would have dolls*! The tears came easily: another
questionable trait. He walked like a man, talked like a man; there, the
similarity ended.
The ugly incident played over again in his mind. It was two hours of work
(good old 10 percent inspiration, 10 percent perspiration, 80 percent
exasperation), and his superior, Joe Wilson, grabs it from his desk,
yells "God, stupid, you took long enough on this" loud enough for
everybody to hear, strolls out of the cubicle, up to the conference room
and the waiting customer.
"It's only a rough idea and those sketches . . .," Ken shouted in vain,
only to be ignored. Maybe he should have followed, tried to reasonably
explain the situation, but never got the chance. Later, at the water
cooler, he heard the jokes, that the customer was turned off by the
ideas, and how Joe put forth his own agenda. It wasn't the time spent,
but how he was pushed aside, stepped on and taken over.
"I guess I should just look for another position, Sally," Ken said to the
companion doll sitting in his lap. He rocked back and forth on his old-
fashioned rocker.
He hugged the doll tightly: they were his only social life, a lifeline to
sanity. If not her, then it would be Sandra . . . or Nancy . . . or Rose.
Sally was a 24" Victorian schoolgirl doll, complete with pinafore and
petticoats. She was his favorite; the one who would always listen to him
and his troubles. She didn't talk back, interrupt, or criticize - and
always available to simply listen. That was all he needed - just someone
to listen.
Bang, bang, bang.
"Hey, Ken! You in there?"
That somebody at the door, again.
By the voice, he knew it was someone from the office and tried to ignore
the noise. Was it very important? How could that be? He wasn't so
important that the office would care.
"Go away," Ken practically screamed, adding, "please."
"Ken, it's me, Paula."
"Paula, please just leave me alone."
Paula Drake was one of the nicest ladies in the office, hit on by every
man. She was a six-foot, honey blonde goddess with gorgeous green eyes,
the prettiest smile. She even looked good in sweatshirt and jeans. WOW!
"Ken, something's come up at work, and you're needed."
Needed? Since when! Mostly he was ignored, until something went wrong and
a scapegoat was needed. At least he was good for that.
"No, Paula. They can find someone else. I'm not a necessity."
"It's the Miller children's book - "Lucy and the Sea Otter." Some of the
artwork is missing, and the author's coming in to proof the dummies and
approve the art. And Saunders is in a really bitchy mood!"
"Oh?" Now he never heard that from her before. It must be serious.
"Come in, the door's not locked."
"Thanks!"
There was a sudden shaft of light as the door swung open, then, "God,
it's dark in here. Where's the light switch?"
"No! Please, don't put on the . . .," he said as he rose to try and hide
in the bedroom.
Too late! The room was illuminated, and he was shown in all his femme
glory. There it was: twenty dolls of various types and sizes lining
shelves attached to pastel painted walls. A crammed bookcase with CD
player on top rested against another. Almost in the middle, the
centerpiece: Ken, or more properly, Kendra.
"Oh my gawd," came out as a shocked whisper from Paula.
The object of her shocked attention was a five foot six inch auburn
haired woman, wearing a white translucent nylon blouse (a very lovely
lace-edged cami showing), navy blue bolero and ankle length skirt, taupe
stockings and blue lo-heeled pumps. The face may have been Ken's, in a
strange way, but his presentation was impeccable.
"Err, hi Paula. Look, give me a chance to change. Please," he pleaded. If
anyone at work saw him like this, he might as well quit. He would never
live it down.
Paula grinned appreciatively at the sight before her. "No way Kenny. I've
strict orders to get your butt down there, no matter what! Now my job is
on the line here, so let's get cracking."
Saying that, she took his hand and half dragged, half carried him, doll
and all, out the door, stopping only long enough for him to lock up.
Hmm, she mused, he's not bad looking in a skirt, and he, no, she's
skilled at putting on makeup. I wonder how many years that took. This is
definitely not something new.
It took less than five minutes to lock the door, travel down two flights
of stairs, and enter Paula's car.
He had barely fastened the seatbelt when they pulled out into traffic.
The car Paula drove was a former police cruiser, with a special high-
performance engine that now came into good use.
"Okay, here's the problem," she started, expertly dodging in and out of
traffic, "we were supposed to get outsourced artwork earlier today, but
it was destroyed in an accident. See, the artist was delivering it to the
mailer when a truck hit and totaled his car. The art was burned
completely, and he has second-degree burns on his hands." (Here, her use
of "mailer" meant a courier service - delivery would be guaranteed in 1
day or less.)
"But I'm no artist! I can make sketches, ink and do fill, but draw?"
Paula frowned, replying, "I was told to get you. You can try to explain
that to Saunders when we get there."
The rest of the drive was passed in silence. Ken wondered if Ms. Saunders
would fire him on the spot when she saw how he was dressed. Sinking down,
he thought that if he hurried through the building she wouldn't notice
him.
Him? Still think you're a man, Ken? Stand up for yourself, Kendra -
you're better than that, and you know it. C'mon girl, sit up and show
some pride, dammit! You can do this, and effing well know it - show them
what Kendra can do! Hold your head up, strut through the place like you
own it.
The familiar gray-painted brick building came into sight, windows ablaze
with light. Usually, the place would be dark and deserted, but it looked
like there was a lot of commotion inside, judging by shadows on the
windows. Ken thought that was a lot like his life: shadows on a world -
not showing which was his real self. Maybe he was Kendra, then again,
Ken. But wouldn't one of them be a lie? Everything he was taught, knew,
"implied" that a man was a man, not a woman.
"C'mon Kenny baby, Ms. Saunders awaits, and you have work to do!"
Paula opened his door, waited till his seatbelt was unbuckled before
dragging him out.
"Okay, Paula. I'm coming, I'm coming. Lead on."
Oh God, she was fast (in heels too, he casually noted) - she was at the
building door and holding it open for him. A real woman holding a door
for him! Ain't that a kick in the ole tookis.
Inside, she took him by the elbow and led him to the art department,
where Ms. Saunders confronted him.
"I'm glad you're here Ken," she started.
"Em, Ms. Saunders . . .," he managed to get out before being stopped by
an imperious wave of her hand.
"Ken! I need you NOW! I wouldn't have cared if you came in here in a
bikini, or a maid's uniform, or, for that matter, a negligee. Well, in
that last case, I guess a robe and slippers might help. I need artwork,
and I know you'll give it your best shot. Julia, he's here," she said,
abruptly ending the conversation.
Julia Scolari was another beauty, only she hid away in her area, keeping
out of sight of almost all males. He never saw her, only heard water
cooler descriptions blushing at a few of the more outrageous "lezzie"
comments.
"Hi Ken."
Her lovely soprano voice sounded soft and sweet, like honey. She was his
size, and as pretty as any girl had a right to be. Her jet-black hair
cascaded over her shoulders, and sky blue eyes lit up her face ever so
gloriously.
"Who's your little friend?"
Oh boy, he still had Sally. Now what?
"Err, this is Sally, em, err . . .."
Her laughter was gentle, like the oft-clich?d musical tinkling of bells.
Here it seemed to fit.
"I'm very pleased to meet you Miss Sally. Ken, we have work to do, so
let's go. And, Sally, you can have a chair and watch everything."
Working around Julia was a pleasure. All it really consisted of was
finding which drawings fitted which pages, which pages needed artwork,
and then go from there.
"Okay, pages 4, 5, 8, and 10 are done. Twelve to twenty-five are scanned
in, and ready. So it's cover art, page 9 is a full-page art, 3 is a half
page, and a frontispiece. Seven is a partial, I can handle that - so
could you do a cover and page 3? The rest are either full type pages or
we already have art."
Well, Ken, you could try . . . no, Kendra CAN do this! Hell, if you are
going out, you have nothing to lose.
"Sure, Julia, I'll give my best effort."
She looked at him, her admiration quite evident.
Ken sat Sally in a chair nearby as an inspiration and started on the
cover art. After a few false starts, an idea came into his head. The idea
took over and he was off at a killing pace. One hour later, he said,
"Julia, would you look at this drawing and tell me what you think, and
where I can make necessary improvements."
She came over, peeked over one shoulder, holding the other for support.
Funny, he noticed her perfume and his mingling in a strange, almost
mystical way.
"It's . . . it's . . . Hmm, could you add a little more rocks on that
jetty, and have the waves a bit more threatening, more pounding as they
break."
"Sure thing," Ken replied, setting about the task.
"Ken, could you read a bit of a page to me? I need to get into the mood
of the story," Julia exclaimed.
"Be there in a sec," he replied, wiping his hands.
He walked over, sat beside her and read about Lucy's adventures with a
mischievous otter. It was a simple story line, repeated in many ways, in
many books. He often made up stories to tell his "younger" dolls - oh
God, why am I?
Julia finished the drawing and showed it for his approval.
"It's beautiful! So much detail and 'color' in it," he said, a tear
coming to his eye.
"Ken, you're crying, aren't you?"
"I'm sorry, it's just that the picture is so . . . so, ah, pretty." Other
words came to mind: entrancing, enthralling, lovely, gorgeous, charming,
etc. (Would a real man ever describe a picture in a children's book that
way?)
"Dammit, Ken! Don't you ever be sorry for loving beauty! The world needs
softness to balance the harsh realities of life. Ken, you are a real
find."
"I AM?"
"The author won't be here for another two hours, stuck at the airport.
Let's take a coffee break."
"Okay," he replied, as he followed her to the break room.
"Cream and sugar?"
"Please. Why didn't you let me do that?"
"Because I'm closer, that's why! You get the next, okay?"
"Okay." (If I'm still here, he mused.)
Julia poured the coffees, added sugar to hers and stirred, deep in a
state of contemplation. She glanced over at him several times.
Ken put his usual one sugar and one cream in, then left Julia to her
ruminations. Over the last few hours, he acted more female than male,
sweeping the skirts under as he sat, his reaction to her, and now he
doubted he was a man.
"Ken, I've been thinking," Julia said suddenly.
"About what?"
"You, mostly. Why you dress."
"I wish I knew! I'm supposed to be a man, dress like one, ya know. All
the stuff that goes with being a man."
"Want to know what I think?"
Over the short period of time they worked together, they worked as
equals, not competitors - each one trying to get the best from the other.
Her input on "what he was" would be from a different perspective, so:
"Okay, I'll bite, why?"
"Because it brings out the best in you!"
"HUNH! Give me that again."
"In this industry, you need to be creative to survive. Your femme side is
the creative side of you. You want to be a man, so you want to rid
yourself of what you see as a weakness. The femme goes, your creative
drive goes - and you suffer in silence at that loss."
"You don't think of me as a pervert, sissy, or, well, some other sick
being."
"Christ no! Look - you use your male side for some things, and the female
for others. When you integrate one side with the other, you can switch
between them and use whichever side you need at that particular moment.
There's a balance in your life. When you try to kick out the feminine,
you upset the balance, and everything goes out of kilter. So, Ken is one
side, Kendra the other - they mesh into a wonderful person."
"I think I see what you mean."
There was a noise of someone else entering the room, then a loud,
obnoxious voice: "Damn, I heard you were here. Look at you, you fairy
faggot. I always effing knew you weren't a effing man!"
Turning, Ken saw Joe Wilson coming across the room. His slight stagger
showed that he had one, maybe two, too many.
"Goddamn pervert arsehole! I ought to break every freakin' bone in that
skinny body of yours."
"Joe, get out of here," Julia shouted.
"Why are you protecting that freak? What you need is a real man to
protect you, someone like me," Joe stated, moving towards Julia.
"You protect ME! That's a laugh," replied Julia contemptuously," I had
enough of your kind of man throughout high school and college. They were
all jerks."
"I'm warning you Joe, just go away, please." Ken hated physical
confrontations avoiding them whenever possible.
"Aw, just listen to the little faggot! Whatcha gonna do, you sissy
arsehole - hit me with your fucking purse? Jesus Christ, you are a turd,
a real pussy."
Ken had enough of Joe's words, and drew back his hand, formed a fist,
ready to punch out Joe. He could do it, of that he was certain, but he
stopped!
Stopped, why?
"Can't even hit me can ya. Well, I can add coward to the list. Let's see
- you're a pussy, faggot, pansy, fairy, sissy, jerk, and . . ."
Ken stared a hard stare at Joe. The answer was there. "Oh, don't think I
couldn't put you down, Joe. It's only because you're not worth it!"
"Why you stupid arsehole! You couldn't touch . . . "
"That's quite enough, Joe." A new voice entered into the fray. Ken looked
at the door and saw Ms. Saunders standing there with a disgusted look.
"Joe Wilson, first let me say, I do hope Ken decides to sue your sorry
ass for sexual harassment and discrimination, and I will be a witness to
that. Next, Ken is too much of a gentleman to strike out at you, only you
are too much of an idiot to see that. Thirdly, since Ken is too nice for
his own good, and personally I hope he stays that way, I will speak for
him: Joe, you are an asshole, a stinking fly-covered turd, a fucking
jerk-off, a cock sucking limp-wristed bastard who shouldn't have been
allowed out of the kennel and away from his mother. You have been a brown
nosing ass kissing sodomizer from the start, a screw-up that should never
have been hired, and now I take the greatest of pleasure in saying this:
You're fired, now get the hell off the property before I have you
arrested for imitating a human."
"Bitch! You can't fire me! I have my rights, you know! My brother will
take care of you!"
Ms. Saunders enigmatically smiled, then spoke: "Joe . . . Joe, didn't you
read your contract? Or shall I add 'can't read, either.' Section Four,
Paragraph Three, Second Sentence: 'The above named contractor has the
right to immediately terminate (that means "fire," Joe) any person or
persons whose actions are in direct opposition to the stated aims of the
company or . . . has committed an act of fraud in any manner whatsoever,
etc.' Over the last two months, we've lost two potential customers, one
very good contact, and two highly-qualified female personnel. Those
degrees you say you have are all fake, aren't they."
Unable to give an answer, Joe slunk off to clean out his desk.
Ms. Saunders turned to him: "Ken, Julia, the author is upstairs looking
over the art and pages. She loves the details in the art. She's willing
to have two more pages done, and the publisher was contacted. They
agreed.
"Furthermore, that government job** this morning? Joe thought it was for
a local church. He ran you down, called you a few chosen words, mostly
homo this and homo that. 'My friend' called me with information on what
that idiot said, and that's why he was upset. He's a member of a local
Universal Unitarian church, but still in the closet. I saw those ideas,
and instinctively knew where to get help for tonight."
"Oh my. I'm not . . . I don't have any talent, I mean," Ken sputtered,
trying to make sense of what he wanted to say.
"Ken, you saw the artwork. Ken may not be talented, but Kendra sure is."
"She is?" Ken replied in astonishment.
Ms. Saunders pursed her lips, thought for a bit, and replied: "You are a
naturally talented artist, only you hide it too well. Ken suppresses what
is good in him, thinking it is wrong. When you become Kendra, or whatever
you call your femme persona, that latent talent is released because you
are relaxed and don't try to hide anything. You wanted to be a man, but
you never thought to be human."
- -- --- -- --- - --- -- ---- -- ----
It was well after midnight when Ken went to sleep, full of tired
accomplishment. He enjoyed a night of working close with Julia, the
nicest girl he'd ever met. Ms. Saunders told him to call her Andrea,
another wow.
The alarm went off at its usual time, followed by a phone ringing.
Grabbing a robe and slippers, pink ones, he got to the phone on the third
ring: "Good morning! Kenneth Akers here."
"Good morning, Ken. It's Andrea. Put on a nice skirt today, dear. I have
a very important announcement to make, and you need to look your best.
I'll see you and Julia around ten o'clock."
"Err, yes ma'am."
"I'll leave you to dress, as I've got two more calls to make."
Now what could that be about, he wondered. At least it sounded like he
still had a job. Oh well, a bubble bath will do wonders.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
-
At nine thirty, he had checked the makeup for the umpteenth time when the
knock came.
"Kendra, it's me, Paula! Julia's in the car."
"C'mon in. Door's not locked."
"Kenny, you really should lock that d-o-o-o-r," Paula started, abruptly
shifting gears, "Damn girl, don't let the guys see you."
Now that was nice. A girl as beautiful as Paula thinking he actually
looked good. "Let me get my bag and we can go," Ken said swinging the bag
onto his shoulder.
At the car, Julia greeted him with a sincere hug and kiss, oblivious to
all passing by.
With Paula driving, and Julia holding his hand in the back seat, the ride
to work was a pleasurable experience. The three discussed movies, books,
and even which dolls they liked most.
"Ken, me and Julia were talking on the way over, and we were thinking
about getting together and buying a house."
"Sure," Julia added, "with what we pay in rent . . . besides you need to
stay as Kendra at work, s-o-o-o, just us three girls against the cruel
man's world out there."
"I'll think about it - that's long enough. Got one in mind?"
"Saw a great place on the way over," replied Paula.
On the way, they stopped and pointed out to Kendra a pretty two-story
brick house with rose bushes and floral gardens - damn, they were fast.
The time passed so quickly. It seemed like only one minute ago he entered
the car, and the next thing he knew, he was at a full staff meeting in
the company's cafeteria.
Ms. Saunders waited 'til all were seated comfortably, then began: "Last
night, we had a problem that was quickly resolved. Fortunately, a member
of our staff left us - Joe Wilson."
Oddly, there were cheers at the news of his departure, especially from
the ladies present.
"Also, another member left us, Ken Akers . . . His job is open, and will,
most likely, be filled by an intern."
"Oh no! He couldn't have."
"Why?"
"Where did he go?"
"He was such a damn nice guy, too."
A confused Ken stood there, wondering about his future place in the
company.
"Now, to replace Mr. Wilson, Mrs. Gloria Zinkowski was chosen."
She was the best choice, Ken thought, fair to everyone and knowledgeable
- perfect for the job.
"As some of you know, the company has been in negotiations to expand our
workload. We have obtained exclusive contracts to produce artwork for
children's books, a new line of children's greeting cards, and card games
suitable for both adults and children.
"Earlier today, our first order for two hundred different pieces was
received this morning from a greeting card company. For that reason, I am
appointing our newest employee, Kendra Akers, to assist Julia Scolari in
this new endeavor. Since they are equals in the department, the term
'assist' is used in the loosest sense."
- - -- -- - - - - - -
It was three days later when the first group of twenty-five was ready.
Ken watched as they were scanned into the computer. Once the okay was
given, color "seps" would be made, cards corner-marked, ready for
plating.
"I feel so strange, Julia! I never thought I would see this day."
"You really did a fantastic job, Ken. They are all so beautiful."
"I put my love in them, so I know they are. I meant I finally went
through a day on 4" heels without tripping once!"
"Oh, you," was followed by two sets of giggles.
*There is a large collections of Barbie Dolls is owned by a male.
**A freebee.
Aeryn
- 28.10.2022
- 18
- 0
