Costume Gun: Goth Girl To Soccer Mom free porn video

Costume Gun: Goth Girl to Soccer Mom By Heather St. Claire Today is a big milestone in my life. But my wonderful husband, my three darling children and my beloved mother will never know about it. It may seem like an ordinary day in the life of a very ordinary 29 (soon to be 30) year old. But there is something really special about it because beginning today, this average yet oh-so-wonderful day, I will have spent more days of my life as a female than a male. I'm not much to look at, if I'm honest about it. Like 90 percent of the female population, I keep losing and gaining the same twenty pounds. I'm short, shaped like a pear with big hips and butt and small boobs. My face is kind of squarish. I've got thin lips and a pug nose. On my best days, with the right outfit and makeup (and a padded push-up bra), I can claim to be cute--maybe. That's about it. But that's enough for me, because I've got a husband who adores me, and those three fantastic kids. The boys are such typical boys, full of life and energy. Dale (my husband) and I had agreed to stop after two children, but when he saw how heartbroken I was not to have a girl, he gave in, and that's how we came to be blessed with Emily. I get to vicariously live the girlhood I never had through her, and I love every moment of it. I doubt if anyone reading this would find my life to be very glamorous or exciting. I work as a checker at the local supermarket, the same job I've had since high school. Dale is an auto mechanic. We've got a nice, steady, but modest income. Our life revolves around the kids; sporting events, camping trips and the like. A big evening out for us is dinner at Olive Garden, and if we're not too tired, a family movie. Like I said, nothing too glamorous, but I'm so happy it almost hurts sometimes. I thought this was going to be a dream forever out of my reach. I had the misfortune of being born in a body that didn't fit my inner self. I was convinced from at least the age of four, if not earlier, that I was supposed to be a girl. I will never forget the sense of shame I felt at my fifth birthday party when my paternal grandfather asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. "A girl," I answered matter-of-factly. As soon as I saw the expressions of distress and anger on the faces of the adults in the room, I felt my cheeks began to burn; I knew I was blushing terribly. Everyone pretended they hadn't heard what I said, and after that, I never spoke of my desire again--until I met Denise nine years later. My father was the director of the city's planning department and my mother was a clerk in another city office. This gave them with enough of an income to provide us with a nice home in a moderately upscale neighborhood. The houses tended to be large, older structures, through mostly well-kept. The one exception was a rundown bungalow a couple of doors down from our place. The yard was usually overgrown and the paint was peeling. A parade of residents came and went with regularity. At some point I learned that the couple who had lived there for decades had passed away and their son, who lived in another state, maintained it as a rental. I spent my grade school years miserable and friendless. Although I never displayed any outward effeminate behavior, somehow the bullies of the school knew. They just knew. They called me a sissy and a fag and laughed when I found myself unable to compete in any playground activities, except for four square. In case you don't know, four square involves standing in a square, catching a ball bounced to you from the neighboring square, and sending it on to the next square. The lineup was usually me, a boy born with a crooked spine, another boy with sickle cell anemia, and a bunch of girls. Maybe that's how the teasing began. Anyway, I want to fast-forward past all of that to the summer before I started high school. It was early July. I was fourteen, and I was starting to think about killing myself. No one in the world cared about me, or understood me. Not my mother, my father, my sister. Certainly not any of my tormentors at school. Then, one day, I was walking to the store, and everything changed. I came to the same run-down house I mentioned earlier. There was a U- Haul truck parked out front, which was a pretty common sight. Like I said, someone was always coming or going from there. I stopped to allow a woman and a man carrying a battered couch into the house to cross the sidewalk. A girl about my age was standing in the yard, deeply engrossed in sending a text message on her phone and ignoring the adults struggling with their burden. The girl was dressed in black leggings and a black hoodie. Her hair, what I could see of it under the hoodie, appeared to be dyed jet black. She wore heavy black eyeliner and black lipstick. Her complexion was very pale. She glanced up and spotted me standing on the sidewalk. I think she immediately sized me up as a fellow misfit. "Hey," she said. When she spoke, I noticed her tongue was pierced. "Hey," I replied. "You new here?" I immediately felt my cheeks burning. "Sorry," I said before she could reply. "That was a dumb one." She smiled. "That's OK. My name's Denise. What's yours?" It was a strange feeling to have a girl take any kind of interest in me. "Blake," I said. "Okay, pal. Wanna hang out?" (I later learned that she had picked up a habit from her grandfather, who could never remember anyone's name. To him--and to Denise--everyone was 'pal' or 'buddy.') "Sure," I agreed. Over the next few weeks, I spent a lot of time with Denise. She came to my house once, but I caught the clear vibe of disapproval from my parents, so I mostly hung out at her place. It took a little getting used to, the clutter and the blue haze (both Denise and her mother smoked), but I soon felt at home there in a way I never did in my own upscale residence, granite countertops, Subzero appliances and all. Denise and I clicked because we were unusually bright for our ages and because we were, indeed, fellow misfits. I learned her story, and quickly got a sense of why she had chosen the goth routine. Her father had beaten her mother for years. She had always refused to press charges. But when her mother had caught him fondling Denise, something snapped. She bashed him on the head with a lamp and called the police. He was sentenced to five years in prison since he didn't have a prior record and got out after three with good behavior. Denise was ten at this point. Her father came home with tearful promises that he was a new man. The peace lasted all of six weeks, then the attacks started again. When Denise's mother suffered two black eyes and lost a tooth, she decided she finally had had enough and left. They had moved five times in the last four years, including a spell in a cheap motel after they had been evicted from their apartment, but things had been looking up since her mother had gotten a job in a neighborhood grocery store. It was one of those rare businesses that said it treated employees like family, and then actually lived up to the promise. When Denise's mother had put aside a couple of thousand dollars, she began looking for a rental house in a decent neighborhood. Anything to get out of the crappy apartment complex they were in. The fights, the drug deals, the noise were all getting to her, and she was worried about the influence on Denise. "So that's how we ended up here," Denise told Blake. "I know she's trying her best, but she can't do anything about the fact that life basically sucks." She had been sitting on her unmade bed with her legs crossed underneath her. She stood up, walked over to the window, opened it, and lit a cigarette. She knew I didn't care for the smoke, so she did her best to blow it out the window. "Your mother lets you smoke," I said, once again showing my gift for stating the obvious. Denise exhaled a long stream. "She doesn't care." She paused, looking pensive. I thought she might be ready to cry. "No, she does care. She lets me do anything I want, because she thinks it'll make me happy. It doesn't matter anyway. I'm going to be dead before I can get cancer." "What do you mean?" "I'm going to kill myself," she said, matter-of-factly. "The only thing stopping me is figuring out a way to do it that won't send my mother over the edge." "No!" I said. "You can't, Denise, you can't." She smiled, but it was a sad smile. She took another long drag from her cigarette, and then flung it out the window. "Hell yes I can," she said, walking to her battered laptop. She opened it and pointed to a series of bookmarks. "I've been studying suicide techniques for a couple of years now. Right now, I think I'm going to try drinking antifreeze, just a little at a time. I think it's a painless way to go, and it won't mess up the house. For a long time my plan was to slit my wrists in a nice hot bath, but I couldn't get the picture out of my mind of my mother having to clean up the mess." I tried to broach the subject again, but she made it clear that it was an off-limits topic after that. Two months later, we entered the ninth grade together, and somehow we managed to see each other through the daily torture of being an outsider in school. When she wasn't in her most hopeless moods, Denise could actually display a pretty sharp sense of humor. I'll never forget the day I asked her opinion of Mr. Tucker, the vice principal. "Tucker?" she said with a laugh. "He has the intellect of a troglodyte, the charisma of a fossilized exoskeleton, and the literacy of Peking Man. And those are his good points." I looked around her room on one of my early visits. There was a big poster of Kurt Cobain over her bed. A print of Van Gogh's "Starry Night" was pinned to the opposite wall. There were pictures of novelist Virginia Woolf and poets Syvlia Plath and Anne Sexton taped to the wall above her desk. The bookcase next to the desk featured the collected works of those authors, plus a scattering of others, from Jack London to Socrates. This was a pretty diverse grab bag of artists. I was wracking my brain to figure out the connecting thread, when it hit me. Every one of them had committed suicide. Every single one. My thoughts of ending my life were vague, unfocused, and I think I knew deep down I would never follow through on them. But Denise was clearly a different story. "My God," I said. "You really are serious about this." "Sure am, buddy," she said with a slight grin. "Life sucks, and then you die. Why not shorten the 'sucks' part and get to the final act as quickly as you can?" I understood the sources of her pain pretty well. But I did a good job of masking the cause of my own sorrow until one evening during Christmas break. Denise's mother was working the night shift at the market, and my parents were at a holiday party, and my sister was out on a date. We were alone in her house. She pulled out a bottle of gin (I later learned she had shoplifted it a few days before), and once I got over my initial reluctance, we both proceeded to get drunk, mixing the liquor with warm 7-Up in dirty plastic cups. Do you remember the first time you got drunk? That crazy feeling that nothing really matters, but everything is good? Sometime after my third drink, I reached that dangerous point, which is also the moment when inhibitions fall away. "Denise," I said, or slurred. "I hope you're not still thinking about killing yourself. You don't know how, how lucky you really are." "What are you talking about?" she said. Her speech was unimpaired; I had the feeling she had gained some experience in holding her liquor. "You're a girl," I said. "I don't get it." "Don't you see? You're a girl, and, and you wanna kill yourself...that's so stupid, because I'd give anything to be a girl." She laughed, then said, "I'm sorry, but you're kidding right? What is so wonderful about being a girl?" "Oh God," I said, feeling deeply embarrassed. "Just forget it." She reached out to me and gently stroked the side of my face. "No, Blake, please. I want to understand, I really do." Blake. Not kiddo, pal, or bud. Blake. I could feel her tenderness toward me. "This is so hard to explain," I said. I felt myself fighting back tears. "Look at all the great clothes girls get to wear." I looked her up and down. "Of course, you really don't take full advantage of the variety--no offense." She smiled. She was wearing black skinny jeans and an oversized black tunic embellished with a large skull and crossbones in rhinestones. "Hey," she laughed. "I've got my girl on. And if it's just the clothes, why not become a drag queen?" I shook my head. My thinking was becoming clearer, but my head was also starting to hurt, and I was feeling queasy in the pit of my stomach. "No, it's about a lot more than the clothes. Girls can have babies. Do you have any idea how amazing that is? A brand new life can grow inside of you and you get to bring it into the world." Denise thought for a moment, but soon had a comeback: "My mom had to have a hysterectomy after I was born. Does that mean she's not a woman anymore?" "No," I said, shaking my head. "It's more than that. But it's so hard to--" I stopped in mid sentence and raced for the bathroom. Denise followed and was waiting with a cool washcloth after I had emptied the contents of my stomach into the toilet. I was sitting on the side of her bed, taking small sips from a glass of water, when I gave her a stern look and said, "You have to swear, and I mean swear, that you will never tell anyone about this." She nodded. "We're best friends, right? Best friends always protect each other." Before we knew it, we had made it through our freshman year. Summer beckoned. Denise hadn't brought up the subject in some time, and I was hoping she had put the idea aside. I learned otherwise when I visited her the afternoon of the final day of school. "You've got to come over AS SOON as school is out!" she had told me at lunch, gripping my arm tightly. "I've got a big, big surprise waiting." Curious, I walked into her room after she told me to come in. She was holding a cardboard box in her lap and had the biggest smile on her face I had ever seen. "Pal, I've got the solution for both of us! And it's right here in this box." I sat down on the wooden desk chair. "What are you talking about, Denise?" She opened the box and pulled out something that looked like a toy. "This," she said proudly. "I've still been looking for the perfect way to do myself in, but I couldn't get around the problem of my mother, and damnit, you got under my skin this year, too. But this solves everything." I repeated: "What are you talking about, Denise?" "I googled ways to commit suicide again not too long ago, and came up with sodium morphate. It sounded very promising...a rat poison that slows the heartbeat until it causes death, and is undetectable in the body afterwards. My mom would think I died of natural causes. There only seems to be one problem." "What's that?" "It doesn't actually exist. But no worries, that same night, I saw a sponsored link on the Google page. It was the oddest thing...an ad for this thing." She had put the gun back in the box, but now she lifted it out again. "You hit me with the ray from this gun, and it turns me into a wearable costume. You put it over yourself, zip it up, and you become me. You'll have my body, and all my memories, as well as your own." "What happens to your insides when you're zapped?" "It doesn't say. I assume they just vanish." "I'm at least forty pounds heavier than you, and a couple of inches taller, too." "That's the beauty of it. Somehow, when you put me on, the costume compresses you to fit inside of the old me." I shook my head. "And you think this thing is actually going to work? Jesus, Denise, I hope you didn't waste too much money on it." "It's going to work. I'm sure of it. And look at the beauty of it. My mom will still have her daughter, and you get to live your dream of being a girl. And I get to get away from it all...forever." I had to admit there was a certain twisted logic to it all. But I still was not convinced that the gun would actually work. "Let's just try it. What do we have to lose if it doesn't work?" "Nothing, I guess." She sent me home with the thick manual that came with the gun. She had probably already committed it to memory. The more I read, the more I became persuaded it was going to work. We had agreed that we would do the deed the following Saturday morning. When Friday night rolled around, I wished my parents a good night when they headed out to dinner and a movie. I told them I would likely see them tomorrow, as I planned to go to bed early. But part of me wondered if I was saying good-bye and not good night. I did climb into bed early, but sleep didn't come easily. I tossed and turned, anticipating the beginning of my new life the next day. I think I finally gave in to exhaustion sometime after midnight, and was awake long before my alarm went off at 7 a.m. I was too excited to eat breakfast. I showered, dressed and slipped out of the house quietly. I left my keys, wallet and iPhone behind in my desk drawer. Following the plan we had developed, I didn't walk to Denise's house via my usual route. Instead, I followed a circuitous path and entered the home via an alley that took me through the back yard. I quickly realized the Denise who greeted me at the back door looked...different. "Your face," I said. "It's got so much...color. And I didn't realize you have freckles." "Yeah, no makeup today," she sighed, grabbing a handful of her jet black hair. "I'm a natural redhead under this. Does this mean the deal's off?" "No. No, not at all. I was just surprised." I followed her to her bedroom. She lit a cigarette. "You know how in the movies, the condemned person always gets a last smoke? I figured I shouldn't miss out." I sat there silently, watching her take a few impatient drags. Then she stubbed the butt out in the overflowing ashtray on her desk. "So, you ready to do this?" she said, picking up the gun. I nodded. "I just want you to make me one promise. Don't go all girly after you become me, okay? People will think I've lost my mind." She chuckled. "Okay," I croaked. I had a huge lump in my throat and was fighting back tears. She picked up her cell phone and dialed my number. "Yo, buddy, where are you? Don't stand me up! You said we were gonna hang out all day." She snapped the phone shut, looked at me and said, "Now don't forget to call again later." I nodded silently. I could feel the tears starting to come. "What's the matter, buddy? Your fondest wish is coming true today." "Yeah, but I'm losing my best friend." She grabbed me and hugged me tightly. "You'll be fine. And you're not losing me. I'll always be with you. In fact, I'm gonna have you surrounded!" She laughed, and this time I laughed too. She handed me the gun. "Let's get this done," she said. "Denise," I said. "How am I ever going to be able to say thank you?" "Just be good to mom, okay? That poor woman has been through so much. Treat her better than I treated her." I was standing just a couple of feet from Denise and aimed the gun squarely at her. I thought I saw her close her eyes and flinch right before the ray hit her, but that could have been my imagination. One moment Denise was standing there, and the next instant, she was an empty shell on the floor. "Oh my God, Denise!" I cried. "It really worked!" But of course she couldn't hear me. I was trembling with excitement, anticipation and fear as I stripped off my clothing and picked up the costume that had been Denise. I could hardly guide my right foot into her open leg, but somehow I did, repeating the same action for the left leg. I took one final look at my male equipment, which I would not miss one bit. As I began to pull the costume upward, I watched my old "junk" disappear and my new pussy magically come to life. I carefully put my arms inside of Denise's. I was probably being too careful, acting like the costume was made of some kind of tissue paper that would easily tear, when in fact it was quite durable, just as the manual had promised. I don't know why I drew things out--maybe I wanted to savor the process of transformation itself, since I would never experience it again. I pulled Denise's head over my own. I continued to marvel at how my larger form so easily compacted itself into hers. Now I was looking through the world through her eyes. All that was left was to pull up the costume's "zipper" and close it under my new chin. ....come on Blake, buddy, don't lose your nerve now, don't lose your nerve! Do it! Just do it!..Shit! What happened to my clothes? Then my head cleared, and I realized I wasn't actually Denise, I was Blake inside the Denise costume. The manual had warned about this. Now my head was clear, and the reality was sinking in: I was a girl. I was a girl. I wanted to climb up on the roof and shout it to the world: I'm a girl! Somehow, I restrained myself. After several minutes of exploring every inch of my new body that I could reach, I decided to jump in the shower. Oh, what fun it was to scrub my new body, to explore every crevice in this wonderful way. Part of me didn't want to get out of the shower, but my eagerness to get on with things eventually pulled me out from under the warm spray. I headed back to Denise's bedroom--my bedroom now. I picked up my phone and called Blake's to leave another message. I stood there naked, except for the towel wrapped around my head, searching Denise's closet--MY closet now--for anything to wear that wasn't black. I had a sudden, small epiphany. What does any girl do when she needs something to wear? Why, she raids her mother's closet, of course. I matched a pair of my own black leggings with an oversized fuchsia top from my new mother's closet. It had a scooped neckline and a thin black self-belt. She had a pair of purple heels that really completed the ensemble. I looked at myself in the mirror. I was so happy with the sight starting back at me that I wanted to cry. There was one more thing I needed to do, though. I found some nail polish remover, scrubbed and scrubbed until the black polish on my nails was gone. I replaced it with fuchsia polish that matched my top and lip color. By now, I figured Denise should be headed over to Blake's house to see what had happened to her friend. I stepped out into the world as a female for the first time. Everything ordinary suddenly was beautiful. The sky was bluer, the grass was greener, the smell of the flowers was sweeter and the song of the birds was more musical. It was all because I was seeing the world through female eyes for the first time. Of course, I've been through the same ups and downs over the last fifteen years that any normal woman faces (I love that phrase, normal woman), but I like to think I've never entirely lost the sense of wonder and joy I experienced that first day. As I walked down the street, I felt the sway of my hips, the jiggle of my breasts, and thought I wouldn't be able to take another step, I was so overwhelmed with joy. But somehow I made it to the house. I knew everyone should be gone....I hoped against hope that no one had returned unexpectedly. I wasn't up to facing any of them at the moment. Fortunately, my knocking went unanswered. So I headed home, back to my new home. It was only a little past 10 in the morning; my new mother wasn't due home until a little after 4. What to do with myself? When I opened the front door, the answer presented itself. Clean! My mother was usually so tired, so depressed, or both, that she only made the most desultory efforts at housecleaning. Denise had helped out only rarely and under extreme protest. That was about to change. I changed out my nice top into an old t-shirt of Denise's (black, of course), and went at the house with a vengeance. I dusted. I vacuumed. I scrubbed the toilet and shower until they sparkled (and broke a nail in the process, damn it!). I found a pair of rubber gloves and went at the accumulated grease in the oven. When I was done, I took another shower and changed back into my nice top. Then I decided to cook dinner. There wasn't a lot in the 'fridge and cupboard, but I managed to put together a nice beef and macaroni casserole, adding kidney beans, diced tomatoes and onion and sliced bell peppers. I had just put it on simmer when I heard the front door open. "Hi, Mom!" I called as cheerily as I could. She walked into the kitchen, looked at me, looked around, and said with wonder (and probably a touch of wariness), "Well! What's happened to you?" I had poured her a Diet Pepsi over ice, and urged her to sit down. "Thank you, honey," she said. "The house looks great, and dinner smells wonderful. But I have to ask--what's going on?" I shrugged my shoulders. "The whole Wednesday Addams thing was getting old. Uh, I borrowed this top and shoes and I used some of your makeup. I hope you don't mind." "Not at all honey, I think you look very nice." She took her cigarettes and lighter out of her purse, lit one, and pushed the pack in my direction. "Want one?" "No thanks. I haven't had one all day. I'm gonna try to quit. I wish you would too, mom." She raised an eyebrow. "Well, this IS a whole new you." "Yeah," I said. "And I was thinking maybe it's time to go back to my natural hair color, too? What do you think?" She reached over and grabbed a lock of my hair. "Hmm," she said. "Maybe we could put some red highlights in it first. Make it so the transition isn't so abrupt." "That would be great," I said, getting up to serve our dinner. That night, when I went to bed, I found it difficult to sleep once again. It wasn't just being in a different bed--not to mention a different body. Now that I wasn't busy with a frenzy of cleaning and cooking, I had time to think about the implications of what had happened this day. I asked myself, as I do to this day, whether or not I really did the right thing. Yes, Denise had told me that she wanted her life to end, and she wanted me to take it over. But did that make it right? The instruction manual for the gun had told us that the wearer of the costume could remove it at any time, zip it up, and restore the person who had been zapped to life. Denise had threatened that if I ever did this at any point for any reason, she would figure out a way to kill me, and then do herself in. The one way to prevent this from happening and to make the change permanent would be to transform someone else into a costume, put that costume on over the Denise costume and then remove it. Once that was done, the possibility of restoring the original Denise would be gone forever. Denise made me promise that I would do that at some point, but to this moment I still haven't kept that promise. The gun and manual are still carefully preserved in a box in my bedroom closet, but I've never been able to bring myself to use it again. I also struggled with the impact that Blake's disappearance would have on my former family. One thing I hadn't counted on was the media attention that would be generated. Our block was clogged with television satellite trucks for almost a month before the reporters moved on to their next big story. I dealt with being questioned by the police, but what was a lot tougher was a visit from the woman who was my birth mother. When I heard her at the front door, talking to the woman who was now my mother, I felt a knot in my stomach. Soon my new mother and old were at my bedroom door together. My former mother was sitting at my desk, and I was on the bed. She was as perfectly dressed and coiffed as ever, but my heart sank when I saw how haggard she looked and how she seemed to have aged visibly almost overnight. She got right to the point. "Denise, can you tell me why my son disappeared?" "No, Mrs. Davis, I'm sorry, I can't. I wish I could help you, but I just can't." "He didn't say anything, give you any kind of clue?" "No, no, I'm sorry." "What did you two do together, all the time he spent over here?" "We worked on homework together. We talked a lot about school--the teachers, the other students. We talked about the books we liked to read. You, know, just--stuff." "Was he unhappy? Do you think he's killed himself?" "What? Oh--no. No Mrs. Davis, I really don't think so. He thought most people at school were jerks, but I don't think he wanted to kill himself." She looked me squarely in the eye. I prayed she wouldn't sense somehow that her son was right in the room with her. "Denise, you must promise me that if you have any kind of contact from Blake at all, that you will let me know right away." "Of course, Mrs. Davis." As I said, the furor over Blake's disappearance died down after a few weeks. As summer wore on, it came time for back-to-school shopping. I knew mom's budget was tight, but she was so excited over my new look that she went all out. Of course, we did our shopping at Walmart, Target, Ross and Old Navy, nothing upscale, but it was such a delight to fill my closet with all kinds of pretty, feminine things (although in an attempt to keep my promise to Denise, I only got a couple of pink tops). When I went back to school in the fall, some people laughed when they saw the new me. "Hey goth girl!" they'd call. "Did you run out of hair coloring?" I just smiled, laughed, and walked away. One of the unexpected joys of my new life was watching the transformation of my new mother. I came to realize that her life had been consumed by two things: survival, and making her daughter happy. No one who hasn't been a parent, and especially one who hasn't been a mother, can really understand how fiercely protective you are of your offspring. It's the mamma grizzly instinct, which I understand now that I've got three little ones of my own. I would do anything necessary for them, including laying down my own life if need be. Once she realized I was happy, mom was transformed. She began taking better care of herself. She finally started dating again. I will never forget her wedding my senior year. I was so proud to be her maid of honor. Stan's a great husband to her and a great stepfather to me. I continue to be grateful for life's blessings each and every day. I told you how I changed my look and wardrobe right after I became Denise; in those first wonderful weeks, I made over my bedroom as well. The pictures of the suicides came down, but I did keep Starry Night poster on the wall, and it's in my home to this day, a constant reminder of my dear friend who gave me the ultimate blessing.