Doll's House free porn video

Doll's House By Trainmaster The box came when my college roommate, David, was at class. It was huge, nearly the size of a washing machine. I signed for it, wondering what might be inside, and the delivery guy pushed it out of the tiny entry into the kitchen for me. It barely fit and he huffed and puffed as though it wasn't light. When Dave came home from his classes, he scratched his head. "I dunno what it is. Who's it say it's from?" In addition to the form I'd signed, which revealed, basically, nothing, there was a waterproofed packing slip and an envelope sealed to the side of the crating. The packing slip said the box was shipped from Sandia Equitable Partners in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The contents were named as Doll House (1 ea.) and Furnishings (Assorted), valued at ... whoo- boy, we took a deep breath ... eleven thousand dollars. The envelope contained a letter from Harbin, Callow & Kindred, Attys. at Law, also in Albuquerque. It said: Dear Mr. David Preston: The package you see before you has been bequeathed in your name by the last will and testament(s) of your existing uncle and his married spouse, hereinafter referred to as Uncle Dave and Aunt Betty. For reasons of their intent of this bequest, the will of Uncle Dave and Aunt Betty dictates that you not learn their formal names. Uncle Dave and Aunt Betty perished in an automobile accident while vacationing. The estate has arranged for final resting of the testamentaries. No burden of kinship is required of you or any of their surviving relations. The Court of Probate of Bernalillo County, pursuant to the codes of the State of New Mexico, having examined the aforementioned last will and testament(s), hereby decrees that the aforestated package be forwarded to you at your last known address at the expense of the estate of said Uncle Dave and Aunt Betty. There are no attachments, legal or financial, on this bequest and you may possess it free and clear. About the bequest: It is a hand-made doll house, constructed between 1993 and 2007 by Uncle Dave, with furnishings bought or made by the testamentaries. Its assessed valuation in the State of New Mexico is $11,000 (eleven thousand dollars US), should you desire to liquidate the bequest. The last will and testament(s) make(s) no restrictions against such action on your part. Should you have any questions regarding the aforesaid estate or the physical bequest you have now before you, please do not hesitate to contact the offices of Harbin, Callow & Kindred, Attys. at Law Signed /s/ William B. Callow, Atty. at Law "Well," said Dave, lifting the packing bubbles separating the envelope's air pocket from the box' contents. Under more bubble wrap and a lot of styro popcorn, we found ... a delicately-shingled roof with two dormer windows. "Shit," he whistled. "It IS a doll house. Too freaking weird." I started to laugh. "Imagine," I hooted between gasps for breath, "imagine you playing with dolls." Dave's the straightest guy I know--no deviant tendencies there. "Big dolls, too, from the look of this." He glared at me. Taking a knife out of the drawer, he sliced down the corners of the fiberboard packing crate. The sides fell away, revealing the rest of the doll house. It was light blue and had a broad, beautifully-trimmed wooden porch around three sides. The railing posts were only slightly bigger than toothpicks but very nicely turned, once we picked away the styrofoam popcorn. "Hmmm," Dave said. "Since it's here, we might as well put it on display. Maybe one of the girls will find it as amusing as you do." The girls was his pet phrase for the endless stream of gorgeous dates who poured through our living room to kiss and squeeze with him on the couch while I studied fretfully in the bedroom. I helped him hoist the house up to the kitchen table. Repositioning our grips, we trundled it into the living room and placed it gracefully on the coffee table. "So much for putting your feet up," I quipped. "Or doing homework." He responded by throwing a pillow at me. In the two years we've roomed together, I've never seen him do a bit of homework. Yet he always pulls down solid B grades, while I work my fingers off staying borderline. It's not fair. But he's my best friend from the dorms, and I'd rather flunk out beside him than sail through academic nirvana with anyone else. "Look," he said, "it unlatches." He swung the front of the doll house open, revealing the interior. It was fully furnished, and quite well decorated. It had carpeting and nicely papered walls with tiny refined patterns, each room a variation on the overall flowered theme. There was a tiny television in the living room--"it has a plug-in cord," Dave noted, pointing. "And there's a tiny electrical receptacle on the wall." The front door mounted in the swing-away panel entered a foyer with a classic staircase. Again, the railing posts were delicately turned and skillfully mounted. The staircase swept up to a short hallway ending in a master bedroom on the left and a bathroom on the right. There was a one-piece molded-plastic toilet with the seat down, a sink, a Jacuzzi ... and a big claw-footed bathtub. In the upstairs bedroom was a four-post bed decorated with pink satin drapes matching its pink satin sheets. A floral quilt--yes, a closer inspection revealed it was, indeed, genuinely quilted--lay folded at the foot of the bed. "How'd that stay so neat during the shipping?" I wondered, touching it gently. One of the dormers gave the bedroom more space, the other dormer was at the stairway landing. "I'll be darned," he gasped, looking downstairs again. "A kitchen. This is too cool." The kitchen had a range and oven, as well as what appeared to be a microwave plugged into an electrical receptacle. A dishwasher was mounted into the cabinets next to the sink; its door lowered realistically and the racks pulled out. A modern-looking refrigerator/freezer completed the appliances. A sink with a long-necked faucet had handles that actually turned. A telephone was mounted on the side wall. The receiver had fallen down, so I hung it back on the little cradle, feeling its delicately coiled cord slide through my fingers. A back exit led to a mud-room inside the back door, which opened to a small deck with two steps down. From underneath extended a real-sized electrical power cord, obviously intended to power the miniature receptacles. It was wrapped around the tiny porch for shipping convenience, so Dave undid it and plugged it in. The porch light came on promptly. A closet off the kitchen had a washer and dryer--plugged into another receptacle, as well as a realistic-looking hot water heater and a furnace. I whistled in appreciation. "That's some house. I'd love to live in a spread like that." I wasn't kidding, our apartment was adequate but, well, with two busy, active guys, there was naturally some cramping. And the house where I grew up with my mom and her husband's wasn't nearly the show place this doll house appeared to be. "Wouldn't you?" "I guess so," he answered hesitantly. "This place has everything, doesn't it ... everything." "You gotta admire a guy who'd spend all that time getting those little details just right," I said, sharing my appreciation of the workmanship and detail. "Your Uncle Dave was a master craftsman for sure." He had a pensive look on his face. "I don't remember any Uncle Dave or Aunt Betty," he said. "I wonder how they knew me? Whose side of the family were they from, mom's or dad's?" He looked right at me but I don't think he saw me at all. "And what a bizarre thing to give to someone you don't know." Good Relatives Are So Hard to Find A few days later, Dave was late getting home from his classes. When he finally dragged in, he looked exhausted--and frustrated. "I couldn't find them," he grumped. "Who?" I wondered, letting my confusion show. "Dave and Betty," he explained. "My history professor showed me how to track my genealogy on the library's computer. We looked as far back as we could--the only Dave we found ISN'T my uncle, and there's definitely NO Betty in my ancestry." "That's sad. Then who was she?" He ignored my question. "It's amazing how much other people out there know about my family," he sighed, flopping onto the sofa. "Kinda scary, really. Stuff I only know because I heard the adults in my family talk among themselves--suddenly I'm seeing it in databases all over the Internet." It was a concept I'd never thought about. "Really?" I said, lowering myself to the couch beside him. "Anyway, dad's sister is Carole--good old Aunt Carole, who gave us each a box of pencils every Christmas. Of course, there's my sister Amy. And dad and mom. Mom has a half-brother named Earl and a sister, Aunt Linnea. Earl's son is Dave but he's my half-cousin, not my uncle, so he doesn't count." Continuing his cataloguing, "Linnea's kids are Tom and Shawna. My grandparents were Elwin and Margaret, and Samuel and Greta. My great- grandparents were ..." he took a deep breath and pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket, "... Timothy, Marie, Calvin, Sarah, Lemuel, Evelyn, Dagmar, and Marlena." "Interesting names," I commented. "Some scandiwhovian blood in there. And maybe a little presbyterian, too. Sounds like a real rogue's gallery." "Yeah, right," he smiled, punching me lightly on the arm to acknowledge the joke. "And not a Betty in the bunch. We followed the side branches, too but didn't find anything there either. No point in digging deeper, he said we wouldn't find my uncle or aunt there anyway. Oh--and I found out that I hate genealogy. Bo-o- o-oring" That same night, I had a strange dream. Not that I've never had 'em before, but this one was distinctive. My mother came blasting into my bedroom, slamming the door open, angry as hops. "I hope you get your pathetic life together, Ronald" she shouted in the semi-dark, shaking her finger at me. "Aunt Betty and I didn't raise you to be this kind of girl. Now you stop acting like a common whore and get out of his bed. If you love him, marry him, and when it's been properly legalized, then have all the sex you want. As much as we want grandchildren, we DON'T want any little bastards." Weird! And the weirdest part of it was--while she was yelling at me--I accepted the perfect naturalness of the whole confrontation. To my waking mind the next morning, she was really there, really angry, and really meant everything she said. Never mind that she looked like the fat, frumpy, little fairy godmother from Cinderella and sounded sped-up like she was inhaling helium. Never mind that her words were truly bizarre, her attitude came through as genuine. There were other impressions from the dream that I can't shake--so real did my subconscious make them. First, although she was mommy all right, there was no daddy in our lives and never had been. Second, the Aunt Betty of whom she spoke was unambiguously her long-time life-partner and they were clearly happy as lesbians - and in the dream I already knew it and accepted it. Third, I don't have an Aunt Betty but for the duration of the dream, the woman was real. Mom spoke only 67 words. I've re-run her soliloquy over and over, and counted the words. At most, the harangue couldn't have lasted more than 10 or 11 seconds. Yet afterwards, in my conscious state, pondering back to the dream, it seemed to have gone on for at least half an hour. And finally, though I was aware--throughout the dream--that I was male, though my masculinity wasn't threatened by the dream, though I could vaguely feel my male body, I somehow accepted unconditionally her declaration that I was a girl and that I'd been shacked up with someone- -Dave maybe--who was the yin to my yang. I woke up shamed by her disappointment in my somnolent extra-marital activities. It took me the better part of a busy day to shake off the dream and its emotional after-effects. That weekend, Dave and I both drove downtown for some needed shopping. I had to get cash for lunch and parking, so I stopped at the automatic teller machine before I rendezvoused with him and the girl he'd brought along. After pushing in my debit card, the screen lighted up as usual and greeted me by name, "Hello Barbara Taylor. What would you like to do?" I pushed Cancel and grabbed my card as it was ejected. The name on it, embossed and plainly visible, was Ronald Taylor. So I pushed it back in and read the same greeting. "Oh, well," I thought with a mental shrug. "There's been a malfunction." Okay, as long as I could get the $40 fast-cash disbursement, it didn't really matter. I could call the bank on Monday and let them know. Sure enough, two twenty-dollar bills popped out, as the screen advised me to "Remember to take your cash Barbara." When it offered other options before terminating the session, I decided to see how much was in my account. I had to blink twice--and rub my eyes--when it showed a balance of $156,731.82. Now I was sure there'd been a malfunction. I wondered whose account I was accidentally tapped into. I also wondered if that account, or my own, would be debited for the $40. I almost told Dave and Sarah--who was ever so chatty at lunch and made sure that we knew she was THE divine Miss Sarah--about the mix up at the ATM. But I held back, not wanting the chick to blab all over campus. After lunch, they went on to other shops that didn't particularly interest me, so I paid the garage fee and drove back to our apartment. When I put the remainder of the cash back in my wallet, I stole another look at my ATM card. The hair on my neck stood up when I read the embossed name--Barbara Taylor. Quickly, I checked my driver's license and was relieved to see that it was still assigned to Ronald Paul Taylor. As I waited for Dave to get home, I debated telling him but decided it was too weird. Besides, I figured he'd only want to spend that outrageous sum of money on something--like maybe buying a house so we could stop paying detestable apartment rents. The Doll House Gets a Tenant Glowing with self-satisfaction, Dave backed me into the kitchen. Before I could say a word, he motioned me closer. "Look what we bought," he announced, dropping a paper bag on the table. "Go on, take a look." I gingerly lifted the sack, half expecting a practical joke or a prank of some sort. Instead, it contained a Barbie doll in a shrink-wrapped, half cardboard, half clear-plastic box. I slid out the box with a rush of memories. The closest I've ever been to Barbie was in the toy store aisles, looking for birthday present for my step-dad's bratty daughters. I was an only child until mom remarried during my sophomore year in high school, so I must have led a sheltered life, if perhaps a little socially disconnected. So I was fascinated by this Barbie. She was pretty, no doubt about it. The thing I noticed most was her neck, it was very long and she held her head proudly erect. Her lightly-curled hair was bright blonde and the look on her face was a little silly but ever so sweet. She had a very narrow waist and big boobs. Dave must have seen me sneak the look at her cleavage. "I read somewhere that if she was life size--if she was real--her measurements would be 39D-23-33. That's pretty incredible." The doll was dressed in a short white skirt and a satiny white blouse with three oversized buttons, over which she wore a jacket in pale yellow and orange, with little pink triangles of accenting. Her shoes were plastic stilettos in the same pale yellow, perched precariously on her high-arched but dainty feet. Inside with her was a black leather shoulder purse with a matching ... checkbook, I guess ... and a ring of silver plastic keys. Dave ripped off the shrink-wrap and extracted Barbie from her retail prison. "I figured the doll house needs an inhabitant--someone to live in it and give it some love. Right, Ron?" My head must have bobbed enough affirmation to please him, even though my tongue chose that moment to stop working, so he took her around the corner into the living room. I followed quickly but he already had the hinged side open. "There," said Dave, propping Barbie up on the bed. Thinking about it, he took her out again and removed her jacket. Pulling open the wardrobe door, he picked a hanger off the floor where it had fallen during shipment, and hung the jacket in the closet. There were other fallen hangers but he made no move to pick them up. Barbie rested, perhaps a little stiffly and not as comfortably as she might, had she been real. One shoe was off, lying on its side on the bed. She kept the same silly grin, not that I expected it to change. "Let's let her get some rest," Dave whispered as though she could really hear him. He gently closed the front of the house. I could see her through the bedroom window until he pulled my arm and led me away. Barbie stayed in the same place for the next week. I caught Dave staring in at her but he made no move to "play" with her. Personally, I had no emotional attachment to her, so I didn't give her a second thought. All the Amenities of Home Dave and I took a break from the mid-quarter intensity to watch "Captain Blood" on cable. We're both Errol Flynn fans and we got a kick out of the oh-so carefully-choreographed sword fights. We cheered when the bad guys got it, and booed out-loud at that inevitable heavily-scripted moment when the battle seemed to be turning the wrong way. Fortunately, Flynn won through, as he always did, and the movie ended in its usual, predictably sappy way. I woke up with a kink in my neck. The television was going full-on with some abysmal late-evening movie. The couch was uncomfortable, so I stood and stretched. Turning the tube off, I noticed an unusual bluish glow coming through the window. I wasn't prepared for what I saw when I went to investigate. In front of me was another television--the size of a movie theater screen--playing the same cheesy movie. Its glow covered everything with the dim light. That huge TV was aimed at some other things equally huge. I struggled to make them out. Finally, I recognized a pair of hairy man's legs next to a slimmer, less-hairy pair of woman's legs. The legs were like skyscrapers and they ended in tennis shoes the size of automobiles. My heart started to race when I thought about the implications. I was ... in the doll house. Those were Dave's legs ... and one of his girls. They had to be. Quickly, I turned the TV back on as a distraction. I debated pinching myself and finally decided I didn't want to know if it was dream or reality. A couple nights later, I woke up with cotton on my tongue from sleeping on my back with my mouth open. I do that sometimes, especially when school has me stressed out. The only thing that helps is to get up and get a drink of water. I wasn't particularly awake, just knew I needed a drink and had to go to the bathroom. Down the hall I padded quietly. The toilet seat was down so I lifted it up to pee. As groggy as I was, the flush handle was the wrong shape but the toilet flushed with a reassuring gurgle. Back in the hall, I looked around. There in a faint yellow glow, I could dimly see where I was--at the top of a staircase. This sure wasn't where I remembered going to sleep. Still, my subconscious insisted that the drink of water I craved was down those stairs, so my feet carefully negotiated each carpeted riser. The kitchen linoleum was cold on my bare soles but the goal of my nocturnal quest was so close I kept going. In the cabinet nearest to the sink, I found a plastic tumbler. Spinning the faucet handle, I got a refreshing gush of cool water and filled the glass. After quenching my thirst, I set the glass on the counter and went back upstairs. The only bed was the four-poster with its heavy wooden headboard--I was still groggy and for some reason, it made sense to climb under the satin sheets and pull up the quilt. When I looked through the doll house's kitchen window in the morning, there was a Barbie-sized plastic tumbler sitting discarded on the counter next to the sink. The doll was upstairs, sitting awkwardly on the four-post bed. I unlatched the front and looked inside. In the bathroom, the toilet seat was ... up. In the kitchen, the faucet had handles that spun around--but no water came out. The rest of the cabinets were empty. As I prepared for the day, I decided the whole night's episode was a dream, nothing more, and let it go. I never told Dave about it, especially after what he had to say when he woke up. "I had the strangest dream last night," he said, standing in the bathroom door with a faraway look in his eyes. "It was about you ... well, not exactly you ... but then, not exactly not not, either ..." I finished shaving and turned to see why he hesitated. "Go on," I urged. "... you didn't have any clothes on. Well, you had on your bathrobe, the short blue one. Your back was toward me until I walked into the kitchen." I put my face under the warm tap and rinsed off the excess shaving cream. My face dripped as I straightened up. "Did I do anything--in the dream?" "Yes," he said, handing me a towel. "You opened the robe and flashed me with a pair of huge tits. And then you said, 'Don't you like my boxers?' That's pretty strange, isn't it? You had great big hooters and you asked, 'Don't you like my boxers?'" he repeated. I smiled. "Let me get this straight. You dreamed I was nearly-naked-- with enormous breasts. And I asked you how you liked my boxers. Dude, you weren't drunk, were you?" He repressed a shudder, "The house rule is ... well, you know ... no alcohol on school nights." Break Down, Go Ahead and Cry I was an only child until my 15th birthday. My father was a state trooper, killed in a high speed chase when I was eleven. Four years later, Mom finally found a man she liked, and he had twin 12-year-old daughters. When the grown-ups got married, it was instant family. Those two were a handful. They were incorrigible--and they didn't seem to like me. I tried to complain but there wasn't much sympathy ... mom never got involved, and my step-dad traveled on business, so he wouldn't do anything. They left a sour taste in my mouth for young women. Besides the constant yakking about nothing and everything, and long hair in the sink and shower, they dropped girly stuff all over. Needless to say, I moved into the dorm as soon as I could get away. Unfortunately, I'd already developed something of a misogynistic, female-hating attitude. College isn't the place to practice misguided chauvinism, the women all seem to have chips on their shoulders. Liberated, free-thinking dorm girls are bad enough, but sorority girls really know how to humiliate guys like me. So, by the time I met Dave, I was demoralized about dating. I didn't know how to approach women, and I was uncomfortable with small talk. All too often, it seemed, they only wanted to chatter on about themselves and their female activities. They reminded me of my step-sisters. I felt I had better things to do with my life and soon I was known as a recluse--and worse, a nerd. Dave was my rescuer. He was assigned to my room mid-way through our first quarter, when my original roommate was in an accident and dropped out of school. Within weeks, Dave and I were solid friends. He got me involved in intramurals and forced me to participate in campus activities. When we moved out of the dorm at the end of our freshman year, Dave and I bought matching futons. It made sense. We rented a one-bedroom apartment and spent most of our time in the living room. As we progressed through school, and with the intent of keeping our friendship untainted by proximity arguments, we changed to a two-bedroom apartment. He sold his futon to one of his former girlfriends and bought a queen size bed. I kept my futon. It stayed on the floor of my room, folded over when I wasn't laying on it. I figured there wasn't any point in spending money I didn't have to for creature comforts. My mother converted a fitted twin-size sheet to wrap around it, so I didn't have to sleep in a sleeping bag. About a month after the doll house arrived, I had a late evening study session for my sociology class, as my learning group prepared for the final presentation. Dave was on a date, so I walked home alone sipping a milkshake from the student lounge. As usual, he'd left the living room lamp on low so I wouldn't have to fumble in the dark. In my shadowy bedroom, I had an uneasy sense that something had changed--something wasn't quite right, but I couldn't put my finger on it ... ... until I flipped the light switch. There, where my trusty futon should have been neatly folded, was a four-post bed with a heavy wooden headboard and a thick mattress. I turned off the light again, and flipped it on a second time. The four-post bed, with its pink satin sheets, was still there. Bewildered, I walked back to the living room and flopped onto the sofa. That's where Dave found me when he got home. "You gotta see what's in my room," I muttered, shooing him along. In a moment, he was back. "It almost looks like Barbie's bed. Where's the futon?" I shrugged. "Don't know." I stayed on the couch as he unlatched the doll house. With a low whistle, he motioned me over. "Unbelievable. You gotta see THIS!" There was Barbie, sitting in the bedroom, atop a miniature of MY futon. I slid the doll off and picked the futon up. Sure enough, it was wrapped in a fitted cotton sheet the same blue-and-white pattern as the one mom converted for me. The stitching was hand-sewn in mom's unmistakable handwork. Dave caught the little futon as it slipped from my fingers. I wandered dazed into my bedroom and sat on the thick mattress. Running my hand over the slick coolness of the satin sheet, I started to sob quietly. I don't know why it upset me, but the swap was too much and it overwhelmed me. Tears splashed down the front of my T-shirt. With compassion and tenderness, Dave laid his hand on my shoulder. "Let it out, buddy," he urged. "It's all right. Weird shit has been happening and you have a right to be disturbed." I nodded through the tears, and felt a tissue thrust into my fingers. Seen in a Very Different Light We played tennis several times a week, and when there were no women in Dave's life and my homework was done, you'd find us down at the campus gym shooting basketballs. We both love baseball and watched as much as we could. I bought us tickets to a San Diego Padres game, which Dave told me "was above and beyond the call of duty, buddy." He called me his hero for my dedication to studying. And, apart from the occasional issue of the girls--too much of a good thing, I suppose-- nothing else could come between us. Of those romances in Dave's life, I was never really interested. They came, they went. He joked a lot about them, especially over mugs of beer. There were some crazy ones, intent on getting their MRS degrees and fortunately those didn't last long. There were some that genuinely cared about Dave, even when he was at his shallowest and behaved rudely. Those girls scared him. There were some that saw "roommate" and wanted Dave to run away with them. Fortunately for me, he always ran the opposite direction. One of the things my sociology professor kept stressing was to look at things in a different light. I know he didn't mean to practice using a three-foot-tall, 80-pound doll house, but I kept thinking there had to be a new way to appreciate it. Dave was obviously enamored with the doll's house and so were his girlfriends. After the chatty Sarah passed out of his life, he brought Malina home. She promptly rearranged our living rooms, the big one and the miniature one. It was actually good, because she found a way to position the doll house nearer the wall, so we didn't bang into it as much. Then came Petra, who tried to talk Dave into letting her keep the doll house at HER apartment. As little interested in it as I was, still I was glad when that pissed Dave off enough to give Petra her walking papers. We had an agreement. After he introduced me to his latest love interest, I picked up my books and went to my bedroom. Or I took a long walk. Or went down to play pinball at the student lounge. Dave needed the freedom to ... well, explore the unfolding relationship. I tried to dissuade him from infringing on my space. "After all," I reminded him. "I pay half the rent and utilities." "You're just jealous," he said. "You can't stand it that the girls fall instantly for my good looks. It irks you that they want to kiss when I'm in the room. You ... you wish the doll house was yours." "Do not." "Do so," he said. "Why else would you spend so much time looking in the windows?" "Do not." "Do not. Do not. Do not," he mimicked. "Polly wants a cracker. And yes, every time you walk into this room, you circle the doll house, like you're on autopilot." I straddled a chair and pondered his revelation. "I was not aware these indiscretions so annoyed you, your majesty. As you wish, your lordship, I will cease the activities which cause irritation." "You ... aw, forget it." He started to laugh at the comic look I was trying to portray. "Okay, very funny." "Do I really spend so much time near the doll house?" He smiled. "Well, not a lot of time. But enough. And with regularity." "Still," I returned to the main discussion. "Why do I always have to leave? Why can't you make first contact at the girl's place?" "Have you ever known a guy who is actually invited into the girl's room on the first date? It doesn't work that way--the rules say the boy scores only when they start at his place." "Those are the rules?" I mocked. "Boy, am I out of the loop on this." "Come on, Ron, it's not like I do this every night." "Yeah," I shrugged. "That's certainly a blessing. What happens when I bring home a girl the first time? Do you promise to leave for me?" "No way, Jose. I'm gonna hang around just to see if you really do get into the chick's panties." He winked at me. "Those are the other rules." "I'm trying to understand ..." "That's your mistake. There's nothing to understand," he explained. "I have the upper hand, not because I want it, or even take it, but because the opportunity presents itself and things just ... happen. With the girls. And with you." "So I don't HAVE to leave if I don't want to. I could sit right here and watch you and your latest squeeze steam up the windows." Dave frowned for a moment. "No. You have no control over the situation. Whatever happens will always happen ... whether you protest or cooperate. When the right moment comes along, you'll leave." "Those are the rules?" "I guess so." Knowing "the rules" didn't help. I'm not sure it didn't make my life even more miserable. Dave continued to enjoy his romantic successes, and I continued to play the part of the gracious but emotionally-crushed loser. Dave never did anything intentionally to hurt people but he did a lot of things out of an inability to sense that they might hurt. "I have to confess, old man," he said one evening at TV, during a break from my frantic studying. "I've been with Barbie a lot lately. She's really a lot of fun. Has a great sense of humor." "Barbie? Like in ... Barbie?" I waved toward the doll house. Dave nodded affirmatively with that endearing sheepish grin on his face, but I was still confused. "Like THE Barbie doll? You're dating a doll?" I started to laugh. He nodded again, cutting me short. "She's not a doll when we're together, she's full-sized--about five-foot-seven or so, I guess. She's the best date I've ever had. Really a fun girl to be around, interested in people, kind of like you ... and the same sense of humor as you have. She's so much warmer than the rest of the girls." "So ... you're dating a doll," I repeated. I realized that I was stunned by his revelation. Dave looked at me with pity. "Sorry, old friend. I know your ... love life ain't as great as mine. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but ... Barbie's been to the movies a couple times with me. We've had dinner together. And we've slept together every night since I brought her home." "Geez, really? You have ... have sex with her? With the doll?" That concept was totally foreign to me. "No shit, buddy." "But ... where?" "On my bed. On the futon in the doll house." He hesitated. Finally he admitted, "and ... in your big bed--she loves the satin sheets, loves the canopy. She told me she doesn't resent that you got the bed, says you're too sweet to be mad at." I rubbed my eyes. "Really ... how is she ... in bed?" Even as I asked it, I kicked myself. "None of my business. I'm sorry," I whispered ashamed. Ever the gracious roommate, Dave was honest. "She's warm, a flesh-and- blood woman with a fantastic libido. Nothing plastic about her--I think there's some kind of magic going on here. God, I know this sounds weird ... she loves me. I ... think ..." I waited until the suspense was too much. "Go on ... you think ...?" "I think ... if she was a real woman, around the clock, I'd ask Barbie to marry me." Who Am I Anyway? I wasn't trying to see things in a different light one afternoon, when the rest of the world decided that's exactly what I should be doing. Looking back, it was the lowest ebb of my time in college, a triple low of my biorhythms. I checked my reflection in the polished granite panels outside the student lounge. It was me, Ronnie, all male, slightly scruffy, a day too late to be clean-shaven. Yet everyone I met reacted as though I was a girl and gave no indication that I was anything else but female. A girl that Dave once dated from one of the dorms waved at me from across the corridor, flashing one of those giant smiles that girls give to other girls. We'd worked together in chem-lab a couple quarters back and she should have recognized me as the nebbish who didn't quite jell into her social circle. And worse, the stupid purse was back under my arm. I'd taken out the ID and cash, and ditched it in a garbage can. But here it was again, a black leather bag with a zippered top and a strap over my shoulder. I decided to check myself out in a mirror, aiming for the men's room in the student union building. It was fortunate there were no others nearby, because--no matter how I tried to force my feet to the men's room--I ended up in the lady's room, totally embarrassed. I don't even know how it happened. Since I did have to pee, I went into a stall, and was glad of it when several others came noisily in. I waited for them to leave, then beat a hasty exit myself. Earlier, at the student union's all-you-can-eat buffet lunch, the cashier had been suspicious when she handed me my change. "Quite a hefty lunch," she'd winked."You're not taking that to your boyfriend?" "N-no, ma'am, I'm really hungry," I'd stammered. I picked a place way back in the darkest alcove of the cafeteria and dug through the purse. There was a compact, as expected. There was a coin purse containing the silver slipper from a Monopoly game and a handful of change, mostly quarters. There was a mirror and a long-handled comb, what they call a rat-tail, with long blond hair clinging to it. A pair of brightly-colored athletic-shoe laces, a half-empty personal packet of facial tissues, and two left of a three-pack of condoms. A silver chain with a broken clasp, from which was hung a locket with a photo of my mom. A billfold--in it was $32 in ones and fives, Barbara Taylor's debit card, and a driver's license, also for Barbara Taylor. Ditching the purse in a two-quarter locker, I jogged over to the administrative complex, stopping at the registrar's office. "I'd like to know ... I have to do a class assignment about others with my last name attending this college," I lied. "Taylor, with a y." The student clerk thumbed through the enrollment lists and came up with three Taylors, Anthony, Barbara, and Magda. "Isn't there a Ron? Maybe he goes by Ronald? Or Ronnie? A friend dated him. He swore he was a student." She searched again and shook her head no. So officially I was not attending. But the non-existent Barbie was! That was even creepier. I suddenly felt like crying. I was still distraught when I got back to the apartment. "Who am I?" I demanded, grabbing Dave by the shoulders. "Tell me right now who I am." "You're Ronnie," he answered, so promptly that I knew he hadn't had to think about the answer. At least Dave saw me as I really was. The tears suddenly flooded out--sobbing I sank to the floor as he hunkered down trying to console me. I explained my feeling of being perceived by others as a woman. "I see myself in the mirror as Ronnie," I said. "Yet people smile and wave and act like I'm a girl." I stopped talking for moment as I tried to compose my thoughts. "And when I asked if Ronnie was enrolled, the registrar's staff said no. There's a guy named Tony and someone named Magda ..." "... I know her," he whispered matter-of-factly. "Quite a bookworm ..." "... And Barbara. And that's it. No Ronald, no Ronnie, no Ron, no me anymore. If I want to stay in school here, I'll have to do it as Barbie." I realized I still had the purse. "And this damned thing. It's a freaking woman's purse. I already threw it away once this afternoon. I dumped it in a locker but here it is again." Angrily I pitched it away from me. Picking it up, he laid the purse on the roof of the doll house. Helping me to my feet, he led me wordlessly into the bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed and burst into tears again, wondering why I was being so emotional all of a sudden. And with that, exhaustion set in. Before he was completely out of the room, I crashed backwards into the soft cool oblivion of the comforting sheets. Things that Go Bump in the Night I woke abruptly, frightened out of my wits. Dave was lying on top of me, thrusting up and down. With every muscle in my body involuntarily tensed, I scrambled away as fast as possible, but he followed as fast, screaming "Ow! Stop, stop! Ow, you're hurting me!" When my back got close to the headboard, he grabbed my shoulders and slammed me hard against it, shouting, "relax, girl. Dammit, let loose!" I went completely limp. Dave let go his clenched breath--and I realized what the problem was. His male member was between my legs and I'd clamped down on it as I scrambled away, inadvertently trying to castrate him. "Uh, sorry," I whispered. "You startled me." I unclenched and he backed away from me. "Startled you?" he said angrily. "I'm making love to you ... and you say I startled you?" It was my turn for anger. "Hey. I was sound asleep," I snapped, "and I woke up to find you jumping on my belly." Dave held up his hand and gave a weak smile. "Wh-who are you?" "Who am I? Who the hell do you think I am?" "... Barbie?" "Fuck you!" I slid out from beneath him. He was acting crazy and I just wanted him to go away. "If you're not Barbie ..." He stopped suddenly with his mouth open. "Ronnie?" "Who else would I be?" I grumped. "We've lived together for nearly three years and out of the blue you forget who I am?" "Look, uhh, Ronnie, I hate to do this but ... what's this feel like to you?" He grabbed my hand and laid it on my chest ... on my ... I took a deep gulp of air. I could feel a heavy mound of flesh. A rounded, distinctly female mound with a good-sized nipple. "Y-you're kidding," I said, bringing my other hand up and touching the other side of my chest. I found another mound there, with another nipple. I looked down - they were definitely breasts. Big ones. "But, this is impossible." "I know," he said. "I know." Shock abruptly washed over me and I started to cry. Brushing a tear aside with his finger, Dave said, "Look, Ronnie, I'm sorry I scared you. I guess this took us both by surprise." I tugged the sheet over my legs and wrung it a little. "I don't want to be a girl. What do we do now?" Dave frowned. "I suppose we could try again ... to ... you know?" "To?" "To ... geez, Ronnie, this is hard ... awkward. I mean, you're a guy and all ..." "I don't understand." "Well, I was making love to Barbie when Ronnie woke up. Maybe ... if I, umm, maybe making ... you know, love ... to Ronnie--would wake Barbie back up. And Ronnie would be back asleep and you'd wake up refreshed tomorrow, just like every morning." He shrugged self-consciously. "But I know you don't want to do that ..." "Do what? Make love to you?" "As ... as Ronnie, the guy. Only in a girl's body." I thought for a minute. My life was making no sense, between the weird dream, the debit card, the doll's bed, the purse, the registrar, and now this. Maybe, in a distorted way, maybe this might make more sense. Something stirred, deep down and low, that I understood even less but that was becoming insistent. I ran my fingers along the breasts and down my stomach to the gentle curve below. "Dave," I whispered, "Who am I?" "Ronnie," he said, with a bit of frustration. I realized I was sweating--and the room wasn't even hot. "Barbie liked sex. Didn't she?" He nodded again. I reached for his hand. "Then maybe ... maybe you should make love to her." It was better than anything I've ever done--or had done to me. Wherever Barbie went, she left behind everything that made her attractive to Dave, and it all contributed to a night of incredible sex. Dave was tender but, boy oh boy, did he ever know what would make me climax. And then he lay beside me, arms wrapped around my ribs. His wetness pressed into my hip and I felt his juices dripping between my thighs. As he drifted to sleep, I wondered why I enjoyed it so much and where my inhibitions had gone. I'd actually given my mother some slutty behavior to bitch about, if she ever found out, just like in the dream. A Morning to Remember As the early-morning sun peeked into the apartment, I slipped out of bed over the bottom edge, leaving him snoring gently among the crumpled covers. Pulling on my short bathrobe, I found a pair of boxers on the floor. They fit, barely, around my hips. I knew what I wanted to do, and had to start while he was still asleep. The timing was close. "Hi," he said, standing in the kitchen doorway. "That smells delicious." "You made me feel great last night," I smiled and flipped the pancakes over. "Sit down, it's nearly ready." And I served him the bacon and eggs waiting in the warming oven. Then I poured his coffee and piled a plate with pancakes in front of him. "This is the best." he complimented. "You come have some, too." I declined with a shake of my head that flounced blonde hair into my peripheral vision. Leaning back on the counter, I watched him enthusiastically mop up the whole meal. Inside, I had a warm feeling of satisfaction--probably the first time in my life I was really aware of it. Wiping the last bit away, he smiled up "Thanks. That's the first time you've ever cooked just for me." "I know. Maybe it's the Barbie in me that's changed." I slid his plate away and put it in the sink. "Maybe I like ... being your girl." "Do you want to be my girl?" "Does it matter what I want? It seems I'm not in control anymore." "Yeah," he nodded. "That's how it seems. So, who are you this morning?" "Ronnie?" I shook my head so my long blonde curls flipped into view again. "But you look like Barbie--except you aren't dressed right. We've got to find you something that looks better on you." "Better than this?" I opened the robe, flashing him with my breasts. "Don't you like my boxers?" I could see astonishment in his eyes. "God, that was just like in the dream. That's exactly what you said in the dream." I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He grabbed my face with both hands and pulled my lips to his. The next thing I remember is sitting in his lap locked in a full-on tongue-trading kissing session, breasts pressed into his chest as far as I could thrust them. We both sighed deeply when lack of oxygen forced us to break the embrace. I pushed myself off his lap and stood up. Dave stood, too. "You sure seem to be taking this well." "What else am I supposed to do?" I wondered, as we walked out of the kitchen. I smiled hesitantly. "Once you get dressed, you'll feel a lot better," he said. "You'll see what a knockout you really are." "I don't have any girl clothes." "Oh, yes, you do!" he replied. "I've been buying two or three great outfits a week, lots of them, everything Barbie told me she wanted. Here, take a look." He stopped at the doll house and swung the front away. Reaching in, he opened the tiny wardrobe. I looked inside. "It's empty." "It is?" A look of panic crossed his face as he peered inside. "She hung them right here." He pulled a dresser drawer open. It, too, was empty. "Shit. Where did they all go?" He winced. "Never mind," I said, patting his hand. "They wouldn't fit anyway. There's got to be something in the bedroom. Sweat pants, a T-shirt, something." In the bedroom, we got an even bigger shock. There in MY closet were dresses and skirts and blouses. My guy clothing was all gone. "This is exactly the stuff I've been buying for Barbie," Dave whispered. "Exactly. Only big enough to fit you now." I let him select the outfit--a soft, slightly fuzzy, sweater-kind of pullover with sleeves that came just below my elbows. It was medium gray at the top near the round-necked opening and it faded to white at the bottom, with a narrow strip of light blue at breast level. It wasn't particularly tight, but I felt it hugged me in all the curvy places. He handed me a pair of shorts. "Ought to show off that pretty ass, too," he smiled. The thought of looking great for him was a warming alertness in my gut, as though my new body had opinions of its own. Dave watched with an increasingly puzzled look as I dressed. Finally, he asked, "Who are you?" I smiled. "You already asked that--I'm Ronnie." "No, you're not," he shook his head. I must have looked startled because he added quickly, "What do you have on?" "A pullover and shorts." "Touch your breasts," he said. "What do you feel under the pullover?" "Just my bra," I said. He grinned. "Exactly! You didn't even notice yourself putting it on. Ronnie would have struggled--and protested." "So ..." I shut my mouth as I realized he was right. I hadn't given it any thought at all. "So ..." "So ... you're not Ronnie anymore." D?j? Vu All Over Again Putting his arm around my shoulder, Dave pulled me into a hug. My breasts pressed into his chest again, an interesting sensation I might want more of. I wrapped my hands around the curves of his firm buttocks, wondering why I'd never noticed them before. He smelled ... mannish, masculine ... dreamy, and I'd never noticed that either. I maneuvered my head so we locked lips for another kiss that lasted years. Later--after I got dressed, again--we went together into the living room. We both noticed immediately it seemed ... emptier. We looked around, and laughed nervously when we realized the doll house was missing. "Damn," he frowned. "I was beginning to enjoy having it around. I liked using it as a chick magnet." "Well, maybe now that you have your living doll fantasy, you don't need it anymore. Maybe it's more magic than magnet." "You're the philosopher," he smiled. I picked up my purse, which had fallen to the floor. The driver's license fell out, so I scooped it up and it caught my eye. I gave a tiny shriek. "D-Dave, look." He came to my side and together we read the details. According to this new license, I was Barbara Taylor Preston--Dave's last name, my old last name as a middle name. The picture was me ... well, the new me ... Barbie, the blonde bimbo doll, kind of a silly look on my face. The address was listed as 19513 Easterbrook Road. "I know where Easterbrook Road is," he said. "It's the other side of old Swanson Grange." "Oh, right." We'd gone to a dance there with a couple of sorority girls and hadn't had a very good time. "Let's see what the place looks like," he said, giving my elbow a jiggle to start me moving. As I walked toward the door, he handed me a yellow- and-orange jacket, with hot pink triangles at the accent points--the same jacket Barbie has worn when Dave first brought her home in the shrink-wrapped box. The address turned out to be about three miles from town. The main road was a busy four-lane affair with the silly name of Farm-to-Market Road. We met a few trucks on the drive out, mostly carrying ... farm products. Easterbrook Road tee'd from it at about 17800, so by the time we reached 19513, we could barely hear the trucks. The house was an absolute ringer for the doll house, except for the color scheme. The doll house had been a pleasant light blue with white trim; this was dark blue with slate gray trim. I sighed. "We can change it," Dave said, when he saw me chew on my lip. "It's just paint." The driveway was paved only about 100 feet into the property, then it switched to tightly-packed gravel for the remaining two-thirds. There was a detached two-car garage, and a concrete sidewalk up to the three- sided porch. Someone had done a very nice job of maintaining the place. On the edge of the lot, a real estate sign swung its "For Sale" shingle in the gentle spring breeze. Dave parked beside it. The porch railing, from where I stood by the car, looked like nicely-turned toothpicks. We held hands as we approached the house. The front door was locked and there was a real estate box hung around the doorknob. We couldn't see anything through the window in the front door--which was identical to the little beveled octagonal one in the doll house except this was real glass. Walking around the perimeter, we peered in the windows. The house was empty but the rooms were exactly as we remembered. There was the well- equipped kitchen, there was the stairway to the bedroom upstairs, there was the parlor where I'd awakened after falling asleep watching "Captain Blood." The flowered wallpaper, the carpet, the interior trim--all just like the doll house. When we got to the little two-step deck by the mud-room door, we turned around. As far as we could see, there were no fences, only a rise of pasture that hid more property. The grass swayed in waves across the field. A flock of small birds swooped and fluttered. The gravel of the drive crunched as we walked back to the car. Silent, we sat with the car doors wide open, listening to the breeze, and the faint, faraway hum of tires on Farm-to-Market Road, and the creak of the real estate sign. Dave used his cell phone to call the number on the sign. He chatted with someone for a moment, then asked, "how much?" "It's $353,000," he echoed disappointedly, hanging up. "For the house and three acres. It has two more bedrooms, and a den. With a fireplace." "Oh," I said, with maybe a touch of regret in my voice, too. "Well, it sure looks like a nice place. Kinda pretty. Probably worth the money. No wonder it seems bigger than the doll house." He brightened. "There's a creek with a wide spot just down that slope-- perfect for a little ice-skating pond in the winter. She thinks it'll be a great place to raise children." I scuffed my foot on the floorboard of the car for a moment. "Dave, I have ... there was $156,000 in Barbie's checking account last week. We could use that for a down payment. That would lower our mortgage payment." "Really? Wow, I don't know what to think. This is happening so fast. What would we live on?" I smiled at him. "I could drop out of school and work until you get your degree." "You would do that? Oh, man, I love you, Barbie," he said. "Will you marry me?" "Yes," I agreed instantly. "Yes. But, if we're going to live in a doll house, I don't want to be Barbie the rest of my life." "Well, what would you rather be called?" he wondered. I stared at the driver's license with my mind racing. "Barbara Taylor Preston," I read from it. Muttering, I experimented with name similarities. "Barbie Taylor. Barb. Bart. Bartie. Bertie ... BT ... Betty ..." We spun in our seats, open mouthed, locking eyes for the longest time. I looked down at the license in my hand. Slowly I turned it around to show him ... Betty Taylor Preston. Together, we looked at the house, the big grown-up doll house we wanted so much it made us ache. Leaning over, he kissed me. I kissed him back, needing him more than anything I've ever needed. How could it be, in a rational world like ours, that something like this happens? Something so wonderful it couldn't be real? Could it? The doll house was a gift to him. I wasn't named in the will at all. Yet, the gift turned out to be mine - it was about to become my doll house. Mine and the roommate who had changed by magic into the one friend on earth I couldn't live without. "There's a blanket in the trunk," he whispered in the sexiest voice. "What'ya say Betty and Dave mosey over that rise and see what we can stir up by the little pond we just bought to go along with our new house." Copyright © 2011 by Trainmaster. All rights reserved. This story is a work of fiction. No resemblance to any individual, living or dead, is intended.