The Fortune Teller free porn video

This is an original work of 'adult' fiction, for the entertainment of persons of mature age (+18yrs). It contains scenes and descriptions of 'intimate' marital activities, feminization and transgenderism, not intended, which some may be objectionable to some. Any resemblence to persons living or deceased is purely coincidental. This work was originally published by Empathy Press (POBox 12466, Seattle, WA 98001) in their books "Guys in Gowns 72 & 73". All applicable copyrights are held by the author and publisher. Any reproduction is strictly forbidden except by express consent. The publisher makes provision that no pay- for-access website is allowed use of this material in any form. In all other cases, by consent and permission of the publisher, the author is sole controlling agent with full copyright authority regarding posting of this work on the World Wide Web (aka Internet). The Fortune Teller by Lorna Samuels with deepest gratitude and thanks to Sarabeth Sipple for her loving friendship, encouragement, and editorial contribution to this project. When my beautiful wife told me what she had in mind, I nearly fainted with shock, fear, joy, and anticipation, all at once. Out of nowhere, Angie handed my dearest desire to me on a silver platter, totally unaware that she was fulfilling my favorite fantasy. Nor did either of us ever dream how drastically both our lives would be altered by her desire to attend that party. "We can pull it off too, Honey," she bubbled enthusiastically. (My frown of indignation was only maintained with superhuman effort.) "We're close enough to the same size that we could make it work. And that whopping five thousand dollar prize will do wonders toward financing that honeymoon we never had." She eyed me critically then continued when I said nothing. "But maybe your big fat macho ego is too delicate to risk on such a venture, eh?" she chided, raising an eyebrow in that coquettish way that drives me so crazy. I bristled (but snickered instead) while externally maintaining the macho/chauvinist image I had so carefully cultivated for so long to cover my "hobby". I thought, 'Babe, if you only knew', recalling the silken texture of her nylon panties and sheer pantyhose on my skin as I attended the most recent meeting of the local TV/TS support group. I gasped at the possibilities my beautiful wife had just opened up for me, for us. "Look," I countered, hoping my fluttering heart would slow down soon, "I'm not that hung up on this macho bit. You know that as well as anyone. Weren't you the one that took me to that aerobic dance class?" She nodded. "And didn't you insist that I learn how to use your sewing machine so I could mend my own shirts instead of bugging you to do it?" Again a grinning nod. "Yes, yes, I know," she replied. "But that look on your face isn't exactly a positive expression either, now is it? I just asked you to consider my suggestion. Ok?" My amateurish acting was apparently holding up only because of her own desire to move up the studio's corporate ladder? Not for more than an instant did I believe she was solely interested in using the prize money to help finance our aborted honeymoon plans. Angie's voice pulled my meandering mind back to the present when she called from among the metallic clatter of dinner's progress. "Well, Jase?" "I'm still considering," I dodged, joining her in the small kitchen to start the salad. "What's all these plans you've made with those friends of yours at work anyway?" "I would think that was obvious. They're the experts in 'Special Projects', a division in Makeup and Wardrobe. That'll be the source of our costumes and disguises. I've put in my time in those departments too, you know." I shrugged. She repeated, "Well? Will you do it? Your ego isn't so rock-hard that it can't stand your wearing a dress and heels, is it?" By now my effort at keeping up appearances was bordering on superhuman, but I also had to say 'yes' eventually. I simply had to! "Suppose I was to agree, what then? What do you have planned?" Her face brightened with hope as she sensed my impending consent. "Like I said, we'll go in reverse roles, you as a dance hall girl like Kitty on Gunsmoke, me as a cowboy, maybe a marshal like Matt Dillon. It'll all be terribly ordinary, really, like most of the other costumes I've managed to find out about, but with the essential difference that none of the men there will be wearing petticoats, and none of the women will be sporting a moustache and six-guns. (Heehee')" I considered stringing my charade out for a while longer, then figured I'd waited long enough. I shrugged indifferently and, affecting as neutral a response as I could muster, muttering, "Ok, I guess I'll do it." "Whoopeee!" she squealed, jumping into my arms, her full ripe body pressing against me, her moist red lips rushing to meet mine. Her strawberry flavored lipstick tasted delicious. "It'll be so much fun," she purred when we finally came up for air. Angie gazed thoughtfully into my eyes. "Remember the other night while we were making love? You said you wished we could trade places so we could understand each other better?" "Uh, yea," I answered hesitantly past flushed cheeks. "Oh, please darling, don't be embarrassed," she pleaded. "I've thought the same thing often enough. That's partly why I came up with this costume idea. Now we'll both get the chance to really see how the other half lives, even if it is just for a little while." Angela slowly untangled herself from my eager grasp and stood. "After dinner I'11 tell you what I've got arranged. We can even start working on some of it tonight." With that she strode off toward the dining room. The subject of the Party was not discussed at all during dinner. Instead, Angie seemed eager to know what I had been doing that day. Being what I prefer to term a 'specialist', a movie lab technician, there weren't all that many places outside Los Angeles where I could find work and still stay in The States. So, when the studio was 'between projects" or the project I was on got held for some reason, like weather, technical delays, script rewrites, location problems, or, more often than not, the tantrums of an egocentric star, I would end up at home for days on end watching soap operas, or tinkering with my car. That is where I was now, on "hiatus", waiting for something or someone to get the shooting going again so I would have dailies to run through the lab. For Angie's benefit and piece of mind, I described some fictitious problem I'd had with the wiring in my '39 Chevy Coupe that day. I hated myself for lying to her since I cared for her so much, but I could hardly tell her the truth, that I'd lounged away most of the day in front of 'the tube' in her blue bikini briefs, pantyhose, a skirt and blouse. My desperate need to share my 'anomaly' with her was a continuous source of frustration and anxiety. But the deeply ingrained terror of discovery which I had developed over many years, along with the rejection it might bring about kept me silent and secretive, regardless of my desire to share my feminine side, my transvestitism, with the one person I loved most. Now, incredibly, Angie was openly offering me that opportunity herself! I was both frightened and exhilarated by the prospect of being completely and professionally dressed up and attending that party, going out in public that way, all with Angie's full and enthusiastic support and approval. I was ecstatic! When dinner and its leavings had been cleared away, we sat down together in the living room. I realized I was showing a bit of my inner excitement when Angie noticed the wry smile on my lips. "A penny for your thoughts." I reddened. "Well, ..uh.., I was just imagining what a ridiculous drag queen I'll make. Are you sure we can pull this off?" Angie's laughter was followed by a fiendish sort of grin. "You bet, honey. And now's as good a time as any to get started." She jumped up, grabbed my arm and yanked me from the sofa. "What's the rush? We've got three days," I balked. "What do I have to do for this whingding that'll take that long?" Angie is only an inch shorter than me at 5'9", so her low heels allowed her to look me straight in the eye. Actually, in she taller pumps she seemed to tower over me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. "You've gotta learn to act like a woman, that's what! And I'm gonna teach ya." "W..What?" She seemed slightly upset by my resistance. "Look! If we're going to win that Five Grand, we gotta fool everyone. That means we both have to be thoroughly convincing in our costumes. Ok?" she asked, hands on hips, glaring at me. "Uh.., it sounds like you've been taking method acting lessons. Or are you bucking for a teaching job at some acting school?" I chided good- naturedly. "No," she responded with a broad smile. "I just want us to win so we can have a proper Hawaiian honeymoon, is all. Isn't that a good enough reason?" "Yup," I agreed eagerly, not wanting to mention the other possible reasons that might be motivating her actions on this matter. "But I still want to know what's coming." Exasperated, she sat us both back down. "Ok. We both have to be as believable as possible. We have to be who we appear to be, right?" Nod. "To do this right we both have to learn our parts, just like actors would. Until we reveal our true identities at the proper time and in the proper place, you must BE a woman in a calico gown and I must BE a man in a cowboy outfit. See?" "I'm 'between gigs' anyway so there's no problem with my having the time to devote to this little project. But, Angie, you're working. What are you gonna do?" "I can get Friday off, but that's all. That means you'll have to practice on your own during the day, for tomorrow at least. But I think the one-day will be enough for me. It'll probably be tougher for you, anyway." "How's that?" I countered. "Well, we gals can wear mannish clothes so I won't have any trouble with my costume. You, however, will have to dress, act, and look completely against your nature. Gals can wear pants but guys don't wear dresses, at least normal guys don't." That comment stung, but I tried not to show it while she gave me a once over, then batted her big baby blues. "Honey, for the next three days I'm going to teach you how to be a woman. You're gonna learn to dress, act, walk, and talk so perfectly that you'll be totally believable." "Oh boy!" I gasped, then added a theatrical gulp and a pause. "Well, I can handle most of that, I suppose. Except for one thing." "What's that?" "Well, the clothes are no big deal if you can get some that fit me. But how in the world will I ever look female. That would take some really painful major surgery on my body, and I'm not about to let it go anywhere near that far!" "And neither will I, dear. That's why I've enlisted the aid of my friends at Special Project. They've got some stuff that can work wonders. In fact, I've got some of it here already, and we've also got a couple of appointments with them early Friday for our makeovers. But I want that part to be kind of a surprise so, well, you will just have to wait and see." I watched Angie's expression very carefully for a moment, then reached and pulled her into a long lingering kiss. As we separated, I said, "Honey, I want that honeymoon money as much as you do. Maybe more." I figured that might be the easiest explanation for my quick approval. It certainly covered my real motivation nicely. Yawning and stretching suggestively, I added, "But it's kinda late, ya know. Whatcha say we hit the sack?" Angie waved me to a halt. "Not so fast, my love." She wagged a menacing finger at me. "We've got to get you ready." "Yea? Well, I was about to do that, wasn't I?" She shook her pretty head. "Not yet, my dear, this is special. The sooner we get you started the better since you've got a long way to go, ya know." "How's that?" "Come here and I'll show you," she instructed. Had I known what the next few hours and days were going to do to me personally, physically, and psychologically, even being a die-hard TV might not have been enough to convince me that $5000 was worth the price I was about to pay for them! Having fantasies is one thing, living them in the real world is a whole different ball came. But ... well the events speak for themselves. In the bedroom where Angie had led me, I followed her instructions and stripped while she went into the bathroom. When I arrived there she had started filling the tub and was liberally dumping the contents of two or three bottles into the steaming water. Knowing the answer, I still pointed and asked, "You want me to get in that?" Angie nodded with a huge grin. "You've got to smell pretty to be pretty." The aroma of lilac assailed my senses as hot scented water and blue- green foam filled the tub. The water was almost tolerably scalding when I stepped in, and sitting down was not a pleasant experience at all. Still, I'd never taken a bubble bath, at least not in recent memory, and it turned out to be rather pleasant once my body acclimated to the temperature. While I soaked, relaxing in the aromatic suds, Angie fetched her own shampoo and conditioner and proceeded to wash my longish hair. Cleansed, conditioned, and combed out, the wet strands reached just below the level of my shoulders. It struck me as odd that she used water from the sink to rinse away the shampoo, and later did likewise with the conditioner, but I thought little of it, at the time. The hot water and soothing rhythmic motion of Angie combing out my damp hair had me dozing in no time, so I hardly noticed when her stopped and left for a moment. Next thing I knew there was something cold dripping down my neck below my right ear. I jumped at the sudden chill. "Don't move!" Angie commanded, "and before you ask, I'm just doing what has to be done. Now hold still for a second." There was a very cold pressure at the base of my ear, then a quick sharp sting. "Now turn your head this way." I did, seeing two ice cubes in her hand which she placed against my left ear. After a short wait, she removed the ice and dropped it into the tub, then picked up a large sewing needle with a heavy thread attached and I felt the same sharp jab on that side. I realized what she was doing, but my mouth just pulsed like a goldfish and Angie was done before I could get the words out. "Hey!" I finally barked, sloshing sudsy water over the lip of the tub. "Did you just do what I think you did?" "Yup," she smiled smugly. "Every young lady in today's world has her ears pierced, and with this salve they'll be healed in no time too." She rubbed a thick white paste on my newly punctured earlobes before putting some more on a pair of silver star-shaped studs. She removed the strings from the new holes, replaced them with the earrings, and set the clasps to hold them in place. "There, that adds just the right extra touch, don't you think, darling?" "Mmm...!" I grumbled glumly. This was already getting me far deeper than I had ever imagined. When Ange pulled the drain plug I climbed out of the tub and got another of many shocks. I was naked! I mean totally denuded. All my body hair was floating in the tub, and I mean ALL of it! I glared at Angie wordlessly. She simply shrugged. "Girls don't have all that hair, now do they?" "They at least have crotch hair!" I seethed through clenched teeth, glaring and frowning as I dried off my satiny smooth skin. There had to have been some kind of bath oil in there too. My flesh felt exceptionally smooth and soft, not really feminine soft but the combination of depilatory, hot water, bath oil, and who knew what else, had given my normally rough hairy hide a sleek soft pinkish texture that was far more feminine than not. "Well?" I blurted in disgust, feeling extremely exposed and naked as I wrapped the sodden towel about my waist. "Now that you've made me feel totally ridiculous, what other gems do you have hidden in that scheming mind of yours?" Angie pouted mockingly. "Ah! Don't be such a poor sport, Jase darling. Just remember you agreed to this. So now, as of this moment you are female." With a flourish she doused me with a floral scented body powder that I recognized as her favorite floral, but my expression didn't change as I slunk another notch toward feigned humiliation. She wrapped my wet hair turban fashion in a second towel. "The bath was only the first step. The work really starts now, so let's go." Grabbing my wrist firmly, she hustled me off into the bedroom. Looking around, I decided I must have dozed longer than I'd thought. There were now a variety of packages lying about on the bed and piled on the floor nearby. Pointing toward the various parcels, I said, "By the looks of things, you've been working on this party idea for some time." "Sure have, and it's good that I did too. Even with great help from the folks at the studio, some what we needed was really hard to find, or had to be special ordered. Now toss the towel and sit down." She directed me toward the bed while opening one of the larger parcels, then approached with a strange looking flesh-colored object. She noticed me quizzically eyeing the item she held. "This is just a padded girdle, Jase. But its color has been matched to your skin tone. It'll fill out your butt and add the needed girth to your hips and thighs." After guiding my feet into the leg holes, Angie struggled to pull the contraption up my legs and thighs. When it was up to my crotch she pointed out a built-in pouch into which I had to insert my tool before she yanked the apparatus firmly against my crotch, forcing my squashed testes up into my body, making me significantly more uncomfortable. There were holes through which I could relieve myself, fortunately, and what appeared to be the mimicked contours of fleshy lips surrounding and concealing a shallow indentation. But I was given no time for a more thorough examination, since my wife's vigorous efforts were pulling the device over my hips and high up my torso. Realizing that certain restrictions were inherent in the device, I protested. "Hey, Ange, with this on it'll drastically deter any sort of fun and games later." "That'll have to wait 'til after the Party, dear." I was less than pleased with the prospect, to say the least. She took a big swab from a large jar. "This will mask the lines," she explained, and slathered a thick paste over the edges of the 'girdle' just above my knees and high on my waist. The cold liquid feeling turned warm, then hot, but only for a few seconds, then I felt nothing. And there were no telltale lines anymore to indicate where the girdle ended. Angie stood back and smiled approvingly. ".... There, that'll do it. What do you think?" The effect was incredible. The padding added several inches to the expanse of my hips and the half-length legs were padded too, giving additional width and fullness to my thighs while producing a prominent hip-shelf and smooth line from waist to knee. I was further shocked to find the crotch appropriately adorned with an inverted triangle of realistic pubic hair. In combination with the small patch of curls centered over it, my crotch had only a slight feminine mound. Most impressive (and surprising) was that the flesh-tone matched so perfectly that it all appeared to be entirely natural human flesh! When I saw what Angie was pulling from the next box, I could only stare at her in mute wonder and obey as she asked me to lie down face up. She liberally applied a strange smelling salve or ointment to my chest. It wasn't the same stuff she'd used on the girdle edges, and got really warm by the time the amazingly lifelike breasts were meticulously positioned on each of my pectorals. The prominent nipples and wide light brown aureoles were perfectly simulated. Then, using the same viscous salve she had on the girdle, Angie smoothed the thin flared edges around each globe. I again endured the momentary chill/burn, but this time watched with amazement as the edges merge flawlessly with my own flesh. Just like the girdle, they looked entirely natural, as if I'd grown full breasts myself! "My God, Angie, they look so damned real, and almost feel like it too!" I exclaimed as I sat up, the new weight pulling at my chest and shoulders, and my arms brushed against their bulging sides. I'd tried gluing falsies to my chest before, and it was extremely uncomfortable. The glue burned my skin, and the pull on my chest felt like the hairs were being ripped out in clumps. This was nothing like that, just the substantial twin weights tugging on my skin! There was no sensation in them, of course, just the pull of extra mass. They looked entirely natural. "Yea, aren't they fabulous? And look at this!" She quickly discarded her blouse, bra, shoes, skirt, and panties, then pulled me up so that we stood together side-by-side facing the mirror. "See!" Lord, did I see! From the shoulders down we were identical twins! Barefoot, our height matched closely enough that it didn't matter. Our hips were almost exactly the same flaring width. Even the area between our legs matched, and the breasts were amazing! I had always loved Angie's full firm C-cup bosom, often staring at them in admiration as she slept, even covered as they usually were by her standard cotton nightgown. Now, I had a set of knockers that matched hers exactly. Even the size, shape, and location of the nipples was identical! My waist was much fuller, but that didn't seem too important at the time. It was, though, as I soon learned. "To get it just right, I modeled so they could match them exactly," Angela stated evenly to my unspoken question. "Aren't they just incredible?" She didn't wait for my answer. "You're gonna look so much like me no one will ever suspect you aren't Angela Taylor." I reached up and gently hefted each of my new breasts. "They feel so real to the touch! You went whole hog on this, didn't you?" Angie grinned toothily. "You bet, bake, and like the man said, 'you ain't seen nuthin yet'", she quipped, pointing at the remaining boxes. "Shall we proceed, sweetums?" "Awe, what the hell," I shrugged. Trying to suppress my growing excitement, I spread my arms and shimmied my shoulders. "Sock it to me, baby," I camped. The swaying masses now bulging from my chest sent subtle shock waves through my whole system. I thought maybe I'd shown part of my inner soul too soon when Angie gave me a quick arched-brow glance, but it disappeared instantly as she laughed at my antics. "That's it, honey, get into the spirit." She reached for another box. "Ok, doll ? You asked for it," she slurred Bogart-style. It was my turn to laugh, albeit with somewhat less enthusiasm. The next half-hour was spent getting my padded frame dressed. I stepped into a pair of powder blue nylon panties that clung tightly to my expanded derriere. Next, Angie produced a white satin waist cincher that she insisted would help give me a more womanly figure. "You'll need to wear it constantly to train your middle," she declared while placing the reinforced band about my waist, then proceeded to take at least six inches off my midsection. It felt like a wide steel band was wrapped around me, then tightened. The effect was like my torso was a tube of toothpaste. Whew! It was uncomfortable, but bearable, just barely! The next item she unpacked was a pale blue lace bra. Wordlessly I took it from her, trying to appear resigned and obedient while inwardly ecstatic at what she was doing to me. I made a big show of examining its workings, then stuck my arms through the straps and drew the cups up against my ersatz bosom. Straining to reach back between my shoulder blades, I purposely made a mess of fastening the hooks under Angie's watchful gaze. As I anticipated, she smiled indulgently, shaking her head in amusement as she realigned the hopelessly twisted straps and secured the hooks. The half-size cups barely covered the nipples, and pushed the orbs together to display a firm deep cleavage. I was still somewhat dumbfounded at the way the breasts blended so perfectly into my own flesh. Even up close, I could not distinguish where I ended and they started. They were a part of me, their twin masses tugging against my chest, though lacking any sensation. Angela moved in front and glanced approvingly over my thoroughly augmented body. "Looks pretty good so far. Now let's do something with your hair." She ushered me over to her vanity where I sat while she attacked my still slightly damp hair with a blow dryer and brush, then hot rollers. I was made to sit there for some time, tolerating the heat on my scalp while staring at my male face surrounded by curlers and perched atop a completely realistic woman's body. Finally, Angie extracted the curlers, then brushed and styled my hair until she nodded approvingly at the results. "It'll be easy later to change your light brown to match my auburn, but there's no need to do that yet, right?" "Yea, I guess." I swallowed hard while staring at the mirror's image of a man's face stuck atop a female body and framed by a new feminine hairdo of thick curls that hung just past my ears, but was much shorter than Angie's gloriously long waves. "A manicure seems in order," she murmured. Examining my stubby nails with mock disgust, she began trimming my cuticles. After filing several nails she stopped and shook her pretty head. "Tsk tsk, Jase, this will never do. Your nails have to be long and pretty, not stubby and ugly." She took a small box from one of the vanity drawers that I knew held an overwhelming variety of nail care materials, polish and the like. "That beautician's course I took after high school is finally gonna come in handy, eh?" she asked as she began to meticulously match and glue then shape and file long artificial acrylic nails to my fingers. With interest, I noted her use of super glue instead of the little sticky tabs in the package, but held my tongue. Somehow it just didn't seem all that important, considering everything else that had been done to me so far. Soon I had very long shapely nails painted a flashy scarlet. While waiting for the polish to dry she gave me a pedicure too, adding the same brilliant shade to match the nails. "Honey?" I asked after an extraordinarily long silence. "Couldn't we just do all this before the party? Why go to all this trouble so soon?" Angie never stopped working on my toes. "Look silly, we've already been over that. You've gotta be totally completely absolutely believably female. That means you have to even think female, at least for a few hours. Your walk, talk, body movements, everything, must appear unmistakably feminine. That means you've got to practice." "But I can do that without going to all this trouble so soon," I insisted. "Maybe you could," she conceded, "but I'm not taking any chances. If your body looks female it will make you feel and therefore think more like you look, like a woman. That's why all the trouble now. With that dong of yours hidden away and all that padding, you can hardly think of yourself as male, now can you?" I shrugged in reluctant agreement. Despite my TV tendencies, this was going way beyond my image of a fanciful costume experience. "No one who saw you, even now, would believe you're not female," my wife insisted. With those breasts and your willie tucked away out of sight you'll be able to really BE a woman, and that will help us win that fat cash prize." She blew on the last polished toe. "Ok, let's hit the sack. We've got a long day tomorrow and we'll have to start early." "You want me to sleep like this?" I stammered. "Of course, silly! You're a gal now, remember. Besides, I've only got enough solvent to remove those breasts and hip pads once, so you're stuck ....heehee.....," she sputtered, "with them until after the party. They'll help you learn your role, anyway." "This is really crazy, Ange. If you're going to so much trouble to get me this way, why aren't you doing the same?" "Oh, I will, I promise. For tonight though, you're wearing one of my nighties and I'm wearing your shorts and pj's." "Oh, big deal," I scoffed. "With that bod of yours you can hardly be much of a guy." "True, but that's the best I can manage at the moment. Now quit stalling and let's get ready for bed." True to her word, we wore each other's nightwear. I slithered into her favorite pink cotton nightgown, the knee-length number with the low cut V-neck that exposes a generous expanse of creamy soft bulging flesh. It slid over my hairless skin so sensuously I shivered. In my present 'condition', I had was considering the interesting possibility of a night in bed with Angie when I got my first really major disappointment of the evening. "You take the bed," she insisted. "I'll use the hide-a-bed in the living room." She wanted us to sleeping apart! I could guess her reasons but I asked anyway. "Because it's late and we both need to rest," she insisted. "We've gotta get up real early since you'll need help getting ready before I leave for work, including a makeup lesson." My effort to mimic a hurt girlish pout must have been successful judging from Angie's reaction. "Oh, you look so adorable! After a bit of kinky sex, are we?" My blush and startled expression of embarrassment were mistaken for disappointment. "Well, sorry Dear, not tonight," she chortled. After a short trip to the bathroom, she handed me a large oval pill and a glass of water. "Take this. It'll help you sleep." I objected. "You know I hate pills, Ange. Besides, I won't have any trouble sleeping." "Oh yes you will. You're waist is going to ache something fierce, and you've never tried to sleep with breasts either. Besides, your ears are probably hurting a bit by now anyway." I'd entirely forgotten all that, until now. The pressure bearing in on my stomach and lower ribs was decidedly unpleasant, and my newly punctured lobes were throbbing with every heartbeat. Chalk up more points for the powers of suggestion. I was getting really uncomfortable. So I downed the pill and crawled into bed. Meanwhile, Angie stripped bare and trotted into the bathroom. The shower ran for only a few moments before she was out, dried, and back in the bedroom rummaging through my dresser. She grabbed some white cotton briefs and pulled them up over her flared hips. They fit her a lot more snugly than they did me. Then she stepped into a pair of my pajama bottoms. "My jammies never looked so good," I smirked groggily. "I'm sure," she retorted as she crossed to her own bureau. "This will help our little illusion until I can get something better." She held up a black knit tube top which I had always disliked since it's tight cross-weave design flattened her gorgeous bust, turning her mounds into nondescript hillocks, barely more prominent than a well-muscled man's. After a curt nod at her reflection, she crossed to the bed, tucked the sheet and comforter firmly about my shoulders, then leaned over and gave me what I had to call a motherly peck on the forehead. "Pleasant dreams, sweetums," she cooed with a self-satisfied smile before turning out the light. I mumbled an incoherent response. Listening to the sounds of Angie setting up the sofa bed, I lay there in the dark, trying to come to terms with the evening's events. My earlobes throbbed intensely. My waist felt like that giant's hand was clenching even tighter. The bulging breasts made it difficult to find a comfortable position. Yet, despite the various discomforts, I was still getting turned on! The silken material of the panties and gown against my sensitive flesh was terribly exciting. The feelings intensified as I caressed the artificial breasts, or rubbed my hands over the expansive hips beneath the smooth nightgown. I even got goose bumps by just staring at my flashy flame-colored over-long fingernails in the dim light. My restrained manhood was trying valiantly to react from within its prison, but unsuccessfully. I reached down to liberate it from its cramped quarters, or at least make the attempt, but it was there to stay, at least for a few days. The sheath was built into the apparatus, its tip aligned with a small hole by which I could urinate. Even more interesting, however, was the presence of those 'tissue' folds flanking a really fantastic discovery that I'd not been able to examine until now. Probing carefully, I found a simulated vagina that penetrated back into the latex between my legs. Experimenting, I found it to be pleasantly functional and promptly rubbed myself into a pseudo-climax, one hand between my legs, two fingers buried therein rubbing against what felt like the underside of my manhood, while the other hand was busy at my pseudo-breasts. WHEW!! Eventually, in spite of my discomforts, I slept soundly. Angie's voice came to me from far away, along with the gentle prodding of her hand at my shoulder. "What a weird dream," I groaned, then was brought fully awake by a surge of physical sensations. I looked down at myself then felt the studs in my ears. "Oh damn!" I gasped. Angie was grinning broadly in the half-light of early dawn. "Let's get it going, beautiful ... gotta long day ahead." "Okay, okay, ...ARGH!" That last escaped my throat as I saw the clock. "Five AM!" I collapsed back onto the pillows, my senses reeling at the sensations of swaying breasts, curly hair brushing my ears and neck, constricted waist issuing dull complaints. "Come on, Jase, my pretty. Lots to do, ya know." I was exquisitely aware of my 'additions' as I crawled from bed only to be greeted by the astounding reflection of my physical appearance in the large vanity mirror. I looked in every way like a young woman just rising, nightgown askew, hair tousled, puffy faced, but all very feminine (except the face). My mouth gaped open. "(GULP!)..It weren't no dream, was it Ange?" I groaned sheepishly. Trying to wipe the sleep from my eyes, I almost poked one out with a long sharply filed fingernail. Those nails were gonna take getting used to. Angie's grin widened. "Quit ogling that great new bod of yours and come over here." She sat me down at the vanity where a thick paperbound volume was placed on my lap. "This is your project for today, Jase dear. I'll do your face for you this morning, but I want you to read and study this thoroughly," Her slim digit tapped the book. "Makeup, The Art of Feminine Beauty," I read. "I'll show you the basics this first time, but you must learn to do it yourself. And you're welcome to use any of my cosmetics to practice. You're free to try my clothes too, if you wish." "Yea, I suppose." Ignoring (for the moment) the added consent to raid her wardrobe, I stared at the confusion of feminine 'necessities' out on the vanity. Granted, I had dabbled in this stuff a few times, but never to this extent by a long shot. "Good. First we'll do your eyebrows." Tweezers materialized in her hand. "Hey, isn't that a bit too permanent? It'll take forever to grow them back." Then, before she could answer, I said it for her. "Ok, I know.., it'll make me more believable." I shook my curly locks in dejection. Even my widest fantasies hadn't gone this far. The pleased smile on Angie's lips showed approval while sharp little pains brought tears to my eyes. It seemed that she would never stop either. When next I checked my face, the once thick bushy brows had been reduced to finely arched pencil-thin lines above each tear-blurred eye socket. "When this is over," I mused, "I'll have to wear false eyebrows for at least a month." "No big deal," my beautiful wife said as she ran her hand over my chin, and produced a small can. "You need to shower and shave before we continue." Without argument, I headed for the bathroom. With Angie's willing assistance, I discarded the tight cinch and panties then took a quick shower, exploring the luscious latex curves I'd been given. Afterward, when the need arose, I discovered the pee hole functioned exactly as I'd expected, but of course I had to sit to avoid making a mess all over myself and the floor. When dried, with the towel wrapped around my chest, and tucked woman- style, I reached for my regular shaving gear. But instead Angie handed my a pink can. "Here, use this. It's a special product they gave me to help our efforts." I didn't even ask why it was so 'special'. Standing in front of the mirror with that well-shaped woman's body reflected back, I was a very strange sight indeed, with long-nailed flashy fingers plying cream and razor. Weird! The cream had a strange astringent odor, but seemed to work quite effectively as the blade slid smoothly through my tough heavy stubble. When finished, I couldn't even feel the light abrasive texture that was always there even immediately after shaving. My face was baby smooth. "Hey, what is this stuff?" I asked as I handed the can back to Angie. "Mmmm, very nice, and quite smooth," she purred, slim fingers caressing my smooth chin. "A doctor that does consultant work at the studio recommended it. It's supposed to have a depilatory effect along with the normal function. Lots of professional women use it on their lips and legs, mostly models and actresses. Here, put these on while I get the cinch." She handed me a conservative pair of ladies' white cotton panties and a plain white bra. Retrieving the cinch from the bathroom while I worked on the bra, she soon had it firmly secured about my waist. "Now let's do your face." Obediently, I sat at the vanity once again while my lovely bride began the masterful but confusing process of feminizing my male features. Stretching a wide elastic bandeau over my head, she used it to pull back and hold my hair out of the way. "That book," she indicated the nearby volume, "will give you the details, Honey. For now though, I'll just show you the basics. And nothing goes on until your face is thoroughly clean." "I thought it was, after that extra-close shave I just got." Ignoring me, Angie sifted through the various jars, selected one. "We'll start with a moisturizing cleanser." The white cream was dabbed on chin, cheeks, forehead, and nose, spread evenly, rubbed in, and then wiped away with tissue. I was amazed at the amount of dirt that came off with the cleanser. "See how much you missed?" "Uh huh," was all I managed. She selected another jar and handed it to me. "Put some of this on now, just like I did with the cleanser, only use more of it." "I thought you were gonna do this for me?" I objected. "Don't be silly. You're not helpless, are you?" She was rummaging through the feminine paraphernalia on the vanity, selecting items and pushing others aside. More was taken from a couple of the small drawers as I hesitantly spread base coat on my face. When I picked up the tissue box she stopped me. "What are you doing?" "You said 'do it just like the cleanser'," I retorted matter-of-factly. "Silly! That's your base coat, it stays on. Just spread it around real good until it's even and fills in the rough spots. Besides smoothing out your complexion, it allows your makeup to go on better too." "Oh," I grunted. Despite my dabbling in transvestism, my activity had never at any time delved into this phase of womanhood. I was in unexplored territory. Watching Angela do her face was one thing, having to do this to myself was a whole different matter. Even though I thought I'd done a fair job, Ange still went over it, pointing out places I'd missed like my neck, eyelids, and upper lip. The lesson progressed, and I had to grudgingly acknowledge that it's a good thing that we'd gotten up early. It seemed to take forever, and she had to be at the studio by 9:00 am. My left cheek was reddened as Angie instructed. "Use the brush in sweeping motions to apply the rouge, like this.... Now you do the other." I did. "You'll need these." She opened a small box with a clear lid, false eyelashes! Thus, I learned how to apply the glue, then work the lash up against the lash line from the inside corner outward. I did the second one, not badly either, I hoped. Next, my eyelids acquired pale lavender shadow. "Don't use too much, and be careful to spread it evenly from lash to brow and cover the whole lid." I often wondered why women didn't poke their eyes with mascara brushes. Well, After the lash glue set I found out that they do, at least at first! Angie layered a heavy coat of black mascara on one side, upper and lower, then handed me the minuscule wand. I slopped black specks all over when I poked myself and blinked tearfully at the resulting sting (tears don't help mascara ya know), which didn't endear me to the stuff at all. But, with Angie's insistence and patient instruction, it got done. If the mascara brush was dangerous, that eyeliner was downright life threatening! Yet, when shown how to stretch my lid sideways to expose a straight application line, it was easier. The brow penciling was simple by comparison, needing only highlights to the thin high arch left after their recent shearing. Next, the whole 'project' was 'fixed' with a puff of powder applied generously everywhere, the excess lightly brushed away. Finally, Angela selected a dark burgundy lipstick that matched my nails. "It's good that you're lips are so full," she complemented while painting my mouth. "They'll look much more natural." She had me press tissue between my lips, then added a second coat. Press. Gloss sealed the color. During most of this process, I had been looking away from the mirror, using a magnifying hand mirror to do my eyes, which allowed little opportunity for observation of her (our?) progress. A fleeting and very unsatisfactory glance was all I got as she turned my back to the vanity, pulled the bandeau off my head, and took a brush to my hair. As stiff bristles touched my ears and neck, I reached to feel the softness of loose curls, and was reminded of the studs in my lobes. Funny, I'd hardly even remembered them until that moment. Finally, the brush stopped. "Okay, Honey, wanna look?" I nodded sheepishly. Turning slowly, eyes downcast, I faced the vanity mirror, took a couple of long deep breaths that jiggled my heavy bosom and strained the waist cinch, before eventually building up the nerve to view the reflection. She was really pretty! The thought brushed quickly by that if I'd known I could look that good, I would have tried this long ago! Granted, she wasn't gorgeous. My squarish maleness showed through too much. But OH, the wonders that could be accomplished with the judicious application of a few chemicals, paints, and curlers! Ange was pleased, too. "You really are pretty," she gushed. "Yea, I guess so," I croaked, trying my best to act embarrassed while being genuinely awestruck. The image that stared back at me was barely discernible as my own. I examined every detail of curled hair, earrings, full crimson lips and smooth creamy complexion, arched brows and long thick lashes, and her high rosy cheekbones, realizing that I was using femme pronouns to describe myself. Angela must have been on the same wavelength. We stared at my newly altered image for several dozen heartbeats before she broke the heavy silence. "This masquerade is going to be even easier than I'd hoped. Especially if what we're seeing now is any indication." She glanced at the clock nearby. "Oh, good grief! I've gotta get cracking! Jason, you'll have to help yourself to my clothes. I'll be late if I don't get ready now." "Whatdaya mean, help myself? I thought you were gonna help me with that too? And what about this padding and waist thing? I had this stuff on all night, ya know, and it's really uncomfortable," I pleaded. "I know it is, babe," she mused, shucking my pajama bottoms and the tight bandeau top she'd worn overnight as she headed for the bathroom. "Check that big green box on the chair while I shower. I'll only be a few minutes," she called before the door closed and I heard water running. Deterred somewhat by the board-straight posture forced upon my spine by the cincher, I tore my gaze from the mirrored femme-male image. Crossing to the overstuffed chair near the bed where Angie often did her late- night reading, I found a large lime-green box tied with white satin ribbon and a huge green satin bow. A bit garish, I decided, while struggling to loosen the fancy ribbon, encumbered considerably by extra- long nails which hindered my dexterity to virtual helplessness. Finally, ignoring caution, I tore at the bow and wrapping. Just as the shower stopped, I lifted the lid and turned back the gossamer-like tissue protecting the contents. Beneath lay a dazzling profusion of satin and lace which, when removed, proved to be a heavily boned corset of pure white satin with a pronounced hourglass shape reminiscent of Victorian days. Drying herself vigorously, Angie appeared. "Like it?" she asked with a hearty smile. "Uh.., yea, I suppose," I faltered. "But what's... oooh, part of my costume for the Party, right?" "Wrong," she insisted. "B. .But I thought..." "Yes, I know what you thought," she interrupted. Discarding the soggy towel to reveal her beautiful charms in all their glory, she continued to talk while assembling her normal working apparel - cotton briefs, socks, canvas shoes, denims, bulky peasant blouse, and a "flattening" bra (all to "discourage unseemly male attention" she always explained whenever I asked). "While I was in Wardrobe selecting our costumes, I found a few items that'll help you acclimate to female ways, like what you've got there." She pointed at the heavy corset in my hands. "That's your trainer." "My what?" I gaped. "Your trainer, Dear. Wearing the cincher overnight was only the first step. Your body has to match mine as closely as we can manage. That means plumping out your hips and chest, which we've done admirably." She smiled widely and leered at the girth of my bulked out hips and chesty expanses. "Your waist is another matter since it must be whittled down to the required twenty-six inches. Pulling you in seven or eight inches all at once could cause internal damage, and we don't want that, now do we?" The grin brightened even more as she took the corset from my limp grasp and held it against my body. "We'll get you into this, then take you in a few inches at a time. By Saturday, you should be ready for the costume. Okay?" I nodded numbly, recalling the masochistic corseting endured by women only a few decades ago to achieve the idealized wasp-waist figure demanded by fashion of the times. Angie had that framework naturally. I didn't, of course! So how was I to achieve it, even artificially, despite either of our desires to do so? My concern (dread?) must have shown. Angela's tone was sweetly conciliatory. "Look, honey, it won't be so bad, really. That cincher wasn't that uncomfortable, was it?" "It hurt last night, but its not too bad now..., tight and restrictive, but not unbearable." "See?" she encouraged. "It probably pulled you in a few inches too." Angie gave the corset a close inspection, released hooks and loosened laces. "Get out of that cinch and we'll put you in this beautiful corset." "Now? I thought the cinch would be enough for a while," I rebelled, eyeing the heavily boned satin monstrosity. "Not hardly. Now unhook and let's get this on you," she ordered. "I'm late already." When sweet Angela uses that particular tone, you don't argue. Unfortunately, my efforts at releasing the cinch were less than successful due to the ungainly presence of red spikes on my fingers. They were pretty, flashy and ultra-feminine, but not very functional, at least not at my current proficiency level. With an exasperated "harumphf" and mild frown, Angie intervened by opening the hooks, despite her own long nails. I tried to figure out how she accomplished so easily what I could not with similar appendages, but only got an impression of sideways pressure and a different approach to the leverage needed. That was going to take practice, for sure. The corset's severely pinched waist was really narrow, being fully attested to by the fact that it could not be persuaded past either set of pads. Envision, if you will, trying to crawl through a pipe several inches smaller than your chest and you have a small but adequate notion of what I endured. Now picture yourself getting stuck! Followed by a fleeting hope that it won't fit, thereby saving further unpleasant physical distress. But don't forget Angie's determination! Loosening the drawstrings to their utmost, she had me lean over again as she guided the fabric down my arms until the waist area caught on the silicone breasts dangling from my chest. Then, straightening me up, my arms aimed at the ceiling (I was even on tiptoes for some reason), she grasped the flared lower edges with one hand while pushing up at my bosoms from beneath with the other. Then there was some hard yanking and pushing.. I thought she'd tear my 'breasts' loose and take some flesh with them, but the glossy smooth satin material saved my hide as the corset finally slid over the firm twin peaks, aided by a jolt of inertia caused by my heels' jarring connection with the floor. (Witnessing this activity, one might be inclined to write a testimonial as to the effectiveness of the adhesive that kept my 'chest' in place.) Still, the lace encrusted upper edges were slightly above armpit level, which held my arms aimed skyward and totally useless to the effort. So further downward progress were needed to properly position the waistline and get the breasts arranged in the general area of the half-cups. The strain was costing Angie. Panting prettily, she considered the problem for a moment. "Get up on your toes again," she commanded, wiping perspiration from her upper lip. As I mutely followed instructions, trying to ignore the crushing squeeze of ribs by a slightly padded steel vise, she got a good grip and yanked again, HARD. "Whoof!" I exploded. As one, arms freed, breasts popped into semi- adequate cups, and there was a noticeable release of pressure on my ribs that had temporarily suspended the life-sustaining act of ventilation. However, my valiant effort at sucking in all the air in three counties fared somewhat better than my bruised ribs which were still being compressed, albeit less painfully, necessitating short rasping breaths rather than deep thorough gulps of sweet oxygen. My stomach was no less pleased with the situation although somewhat more easily molded by the corset's engulfing pressure. The whole was almost bearable. Then Angie began to tighten the laces! At least, that's what it felt like at first. The male Homo Sapien has his own uniquely masculine method of respiration. He tends to take long deep pulls that fill lungs and stomach with air. Thus, we men tend to breathe as much with our gut as our chest. The instant that corset located its 'natural' position between my ribcage and navel, I suddenly lost the ability (but not the desire) to breathe as nature dictated. Try changing a lifetime habit in a few seconds, especially one so involuntary as respiration! I did. I HAD TOO! Even with the laces 'loosened', my gut was so densely packed into such a narrow girth there barely seemed room enough for my spine, skin, and maybe a few of the smaller vital organs. Now the laces were being pulled and the corset gradually narrowed my girth even MORE. If my stomach was still there, it was most certainly a mere ghost of its former self with whatever was left being well displaced downwards into my already cramped aching abdomen and pelvic region. And that was only the slack! (according to Ange) Of course, she noticed my blue face. "Breath with your chest, silly!" she chided. "Yea, sure," I gasped, immediately regretting the loss of precious oxygen as I followed her suggestion. (Was there any choice short of suffocation?) The reward was almost instantaneous, though not totally satisfying. The blue tinge of my skin faded toward pale rose, which wasn't much Improvement in my mind's eye. Nor was the shocking case of "heaving bosomitis" my panting lungs produced. "Cute," Angie snickered, eyeing the piston action of my half-exposed mountains, then inspecting the balance of my feminization. My lackluster retort amounted to a breathy groan and a sultry scowl. "Well, Dearest, I really have to be going." She pulled something from the closet and tossed it on the bed. "You should fit into that now, ...and these.." Three-inch black leather pumps joined the blue-green stripe cotton housedress. "You can use a pair of my knee-highs too. We'll work on the rest later when I get home." "I gotta wear heels too?" I asked dejectedly. "Sure, why not? I always dress 'to the nines', don't I?" I only nodded, avoiding with great effort the prospect of the concurrent pains about to be so generously endowed upon my person that horrendous corset AND by high heels. I wondered if there was a full bottle of heavy-duty aspirin available, because I'd probably need all of it by the end of this day! Angela gathered up her purse. "See you after work," she called over her shoulder, "and don't forget to practice your makeup." The Wicked Witch of the West would have cackled derisively in her position. Sweet Angela just chuckled smugly, carefully closing and locking the door as she departed for the studio. [You, dear reader, as an interested party (or you wouldn't have read this far in the first place), are almost certainly wondering at this point why I, as an acknowledged died-in-the-wool TV, was not orgasmically ecstatic. Well, my friend, the TV part of me probably was, but other factors held sway at the moment. Frankly, I was scared SHITLESS! And my ribs and gut hurt like hell beneath the awesome pressure they were enduring. At the risk of repeating myself, fantasies are one thing, their accomplishment in reality is a whole different matter! And I didn't have to pinch myself to believe this was reality. It already hurt! The sudden and unavoidable prospect of exposing myself in my present condition to anyone but Angela was, at best, terrifying. Despite her comments to the contrary, I didn't think I looked that good. Certainly not good enough to pass for what, ultimately, I would try to be at the Party. And in my present state, even the most extravagant effort on my part to be either my old male self or to impersonate Angie was well beyond me. I could deal with phone calls, of course, but anyone at the door would have to be ignored out of pure necessity. And if the place caught fire? (God forbid!) Well, life IS general1y worth living, if you can get over the embarrassment.] Standing in the middle of the bedroom, clad only in panties, corset, and goosebumps, I fleetingly considered my alternatives, few as they were. The obvious move being to do as Angie suggested, in ascending priority. Clothes seemed appropriate. I knew from various levels of experience and observation that the knee-highs were in a certain dresser drawer, but bending over to put them on proved to be a real challenge. The feat was accomplished, though, despite renewed gastrointestinal and structural distress, and the risk of total destruction by long nails. By comparison, the dress was a snap, literally - over the head, arms through short bloused sleeves, a few snaps from bosom to throat, and a belt that was really only a cloth string tied at high ultra-narrow waist. The material pulled snugly across my expansive shelf-like hip padding and the hem brushed about two inches above my knees. The knee- highs weren't particularly decorous with that dress, but the general effect was far more acceptable to my internal TV fantasy self since thigh-hi's or pantyhose would have masked the sensation of the cotton hem brushing against my bare thigh. The shoes fit fairly well, though tight in the sides and toes. Again, bearable. I was dressed! More totally than ever in my ignominious TV life. Despite the discomfort, I was rapidly achieving that level of ecstasy attained only by those who realize the reality of a lifelong dream. But the rush of emotion and the accompanying chilly thrill were short lived. I was hungry! And why not? Let's see..., there was that late dinner last night. Then the bustle of activity before bedtime. Closely followed by that horribly early wake up call, and the subsequent heavy labor. And no breakfast! Granted, my internal dietary barometer was under dire stress, but the overall effect was a simple straightforward craving for nourishment. Since very early in my bachelor days, I had long practiced the fine art of self-sufficiency, thanks mostly to an early and persistent education by my mother in the mysteries (to my father, bless his chauvinist "women's work" mentality) of culinary engineering. Actually, I enjoyed the effort, except when it was demanded of me, which usually occurred mostly when Angie was held up at work. Otherwise, she genuinely enjoyed "being a good wifey". The point being that I knew how, where, and what to do. Unfortunately, the project required my presence in another area of the apartment and I just couldn't bring myself to leave the bedroom. Phantom onlookers lurked in every room and closet, around every corner, beyond every doorway, and I simply could not drum up the courage to face even those sprites of my overly active imagination. For consolation, I turned to the mirror. The image of that woman who faced me stared back with such grace, such allure, such overwhelming womanhood, I was instantly brimming with confidence. She was quite pretty. Even if she did look like she had my face beneath the makeup, it was only just barely mine. Nothing else was. Not the curly hair, or the bright nails, or the swelling bosom, or the flared hips and long tapered legs in high-heel pumps. It was startling, amazing, and, YES, gratifying that I could be transformed into such a believable woman. My-courage grew exponentially. At a distance, like from the windows of the facing apartments across the courtyard and pool, I considered that I might appear only as a shapely dame. Thusly, my nerves stilled their hyper- hysteric yammering as I pointed my bountiful fake breasts toward the door and promptly tried to break my ankles as my heeled feet caught on the carpet. Those high altitude pumps were gonna demand some adjustments of my gait, especially when floor surfaces changed. And as I walked my ankles hurt and my toes were squashed. Managing eggs, sausage and toast with those extensions on my fingers required further adaptation, but I managed, albeit messily. Then I made a major blunder by preparing my normal 'healthy' repast. I always enjoyed a hefty breakfast, it started the day off right. But to my utter chagrin, my consumption level was reduced to barely a third of the norm. The reason for my lack of capacity was obvious, of course, the corset! Despite well-ingrained habit, I found myself picking petitely at the platter, nibbling tiny bites, Awe! Admit it! I was acting the part. And that damned corset had me so squished together it only took a few bites before my indicator registered FULL. My mind said I was still hungry, but my innards vehemently denied that perception with reality! The balance of that delicious preparation went down the disposal, and I stuffed the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Now what do I do? Slink round all day in this dress? Lose myself in Angie's wardrobe? Just as I'd decided on the latter, her instructions echoed almost audibly in my reeling memory: '...practice your makeup, you've gotta do it yourself." "Ok, babe," I winked at the femme-image reflected by the toaster's silvery surface, "let's get at it." Wiggle-jiggling back to the bedroom, I retrieved the instruction book and started the day's '"chore'. Hours later there was a terrible mess of opened containers, brushes, cotton balls, tissue, all strewn about the dresser and vanity, not a small portion of which was on the floor as well. Gawd! What a day! My face felt like a brillo-pad had been scraped slowly and repeatedly across every inch of hide above my Adam's apple and between my ears. The extravagance, the sheer complexity of the operations I followed step-by- step were mind-boggling. The worst part was stripping the whole thing off after I got through the final phase and was greeted by, in their order of appearance, a crying Tami Fay Bakker, a whore after a particularly wearing night on the street, and a drag queen in poor health. The whole experience was completely discouraging. The whole exercise was very discouraging, and becoming painful. My fourth attempt at duplicating Angie's seemingly effortless yet artful work that morning was happily (to me) interrupted by my lover's sudden presence. She had gotten off early and scared the living whatsits out of me when she threw open the door with a bang, consequently revealing my inept visage to any and all curious viewers in the hallway. When I dared to peek shakily from behind the bedroom door, I realized I'd gotten there with what had to have been the speed of light, despite my encumbrances - corset, of course; different but equally tall sling pumps, new earrings in lobes sore from trying various studs, white blouse smeared with makeup, and a burgundy skirt over a full slip. Belatedly, I realized I hadn't even used the bathroom since she left, but that was fortunate anyway. The corset's firm grip on my hips with the top edge of the panties beneath would have created considerable and possibly messy problems. The evening that followed essentially repeated the previous night, with a few significant differences. First, with Angie's somewhat irritated assistance I cleaned up the mess I'd made of her cosmetics before she showed me how to do my face properly. The ease with which she went about the task earned my even greater admiration now that I could appreciate the utter complexity after my recent messily inept failures. Then the pleasantly attractive results of Angie's efforts were scrubbed away, to the utter dismay of my facial nerves and tissue, before she very deliberately guided me through the whole process. My results neither equaled hers nor was it as bad as any of my previous attempts. To my relief, that's where it stayed until bedtime. Now I really did have nature screaming for attention. Accommodation was made by Angie, releasing the lower laces of the corset to relieve the pressure in the region enough to pull the panties free. My ablutions complete (the little pee hole worked fine, but I had to wipe away drops, just like a girl!), the panties were replaced by a pair of translucent pink nylon bikini briefs and the skirt and blouse changed as well. She also insisted on my feet never being free of the pumps, and made me walk almost constantly, or stand, for the rest of the evening. I had actually worn heels most of the day, changing several times, but I'd also spent much of that time seated at the vanity. My calves, ankles, arches, and toes objected vigorously while Angie tutored me endlessly. Throughout our short but mostly silent dinner (a small salad for me since there wasn't room for anything more substantial), and beyond, I survived a roller coaster of emotions. There was amazement when I realized I was actually becoming accustomed to the corset's "efforts", I suspected that my mind seemed to be tuning out the discomfort on an ever-increasing scale. Either that or the levels of complaints from the structures involved were decreasing their objections. I couldn't tell which. But the aches and pains were perceptibly lessened. Still, there was a rush of sheer, almost orgasmic relief when I was able to relinquish my 'trainer' and other garb to bathe (another bubble bath, includin