Arie and Brandon Naked In SchoolThursday part 2
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TV GROUPIE
by "C. C."
My name is Clinton Crayle, and I'm a very different kind of Private
Detective. I specialize in untangling the kinky sex lives of the very
rich. My fee is One Thousand Dollars a day, and I'm seldom out of work.
My clients know my discretion is absolute, and I guarantee my results.
So if you're rich and in a jam, call on me. Margaret Thaylor did...
Robyn Thaylor's room looked like the room of any teenage daughter of a
wealthy widowed mother. Rock posters on the walls, two record players,
a portable TV, makeup table, dressers and closets stuffed with loud
clothes... I turned to Margaret Thaylor.
"You say your daughter Robyn has been gone Three Weeks now?"
She nodded. I looked around the room, trying to figure out what was
missing.
"But she took none of her clothes or makeup?"
"None at all." Mrs. Thaylor was a striking woman in her mid-forties,
with a strong chin and well-styled dark hair. She spoke with a barely
perceptible tremor in her soft voice. "I'm afraid I really don't have
much idea what all is usually in here. After all, Robyn is almost
Eighteen, and I've been trying to give her a certain amount of privacy,
hoping to nurture the maturity which she so sadly lacks. So I
truthfully can't say whether anything is missing or not."
"Yet she did leave a note," I mused.
"Yes," Margaret Thaylor added, "and I also discovered that she emptied
out her checking and savings accounts as well."
"So she planned to run away for some time," I reflected, "yet she took
nothing from her own room? It just doesn't fit!"
"I've already told you, Mr. Crayle," Margaret Thaylor sighed with
weariness and frustration, "Robyn has more than her share of personal
quirks. She's technically just become an adult, yet in many ways, she
still behaves like a spoiled child. All she seems to care about are
parties, rock music...."
"And girlfriends?" I asked gently.
Mrs. Thaylor bit her lower lip and nodded.
"Yes," she answered, "as I told you, Robyn has been thrown out of
several schools, public and private, for... for lesbian activities. I
even had to hire a private tutor, just to polish up her basic reading
and writing. But you can see from her note, it wasn't much help."
I looked at the note again, a cramped, ungainly scrawl in red ink
across expensive personal stationery:
Dear Mom--
Im splitting at last!!! You always want me to be something I'm not and
you try to make me not be what I am so Im splitting at last. You would
never accept the Life Style I choose so don't try to find me.
--Robyn
"This note would indicate that she's already worked out some kind of
living arrangement," I said, "possibly with another girl. Had she been
seeing anyone very much recently?"
"No one," Mrs. Thaylor insisted, "and the Police have already checked
out all her girlfriends very closely indeed. No, we seem to have run
out of ideas. Which is why I called you."
"All right," I said, "leave me alone in here for a few minutes and I'll
see what I can find."
The first thing I found was three rolls of invisible scotch tape in the
desk, all partially-used and buried under various layers of clutter, as
if Robyn had set them down but not bothered to hunt them out again.
Three paper knives and two pairs of scissors were similarly overlayed
in clutter.
Now why would she be doing all that cutting and pasting, I wondered; A
scrap-book? I looked around, but could find no scrapbook of any kind.
What I did find was a good-sized stack of teen/rock/music magazines
under the bed, all with pages missing.
The first magazine had no cover. I turned to the title page. In a lower
corner was a picture of four girls in leather. Below it was the
caption:
ON THE COVER... Punk rock, female style, with those weird chicks from
"Bitchin' Heat". They're hot all right, but are they carrying Bizarre
too farre??? Check out the story on Page 47
I turned to page 47. It, and the following three pages were all
missing.
The second magazine was missing the entire middle eight pages. I turned
to the table of contents:
CENTERSPREAD-- Femme fashions in Leather & Lace, courtesy of that
controversial group, "Bitchin' Heat"
On the contents page of the third magazine, second item from the top:
"Parents are afraid of us -- and they'd better be!" An interview with
eccentric Edie Smythe, lead singer of "Bitchin' Heat".......p.8
Of course, pages eight, nine and ten were missing.
So it looked like Robyn Thaylor had indeed been keeping a scrapbook.
And it was something that she considered important enough to take with
her, even when she left her clothes and makeup behind. Which, for a
girl, is pretty damned important!
I went back downstairs and found Margaret Thaylor arranging flowers in
a vase.
"I've got a lead, Mrs. Thaylor," I said, "it's just a possibility, but
if it pans out, I should be able to find Robyn for you in a few days."
"And then what?" She looked at me hopefully.
"And then it's up to you," I said, "I would recommend a good de-
programming clinic. One that will subject Robyn to strict aversion
therapy, shock treatment, sensory deprivation, whatever is needed to
turn her in to a proper, demure young lady. But she won't go willingly,
so I'm going to give you the names of a couple of strong-arm gals who
can carry off just about anything for a price. Meanwhile, start
checking out the de-programming clinics. I've got a feeling your
daughter Robyn is going to need the toughest one in the business!"
I left the Thayer Estate and drove into the heart of the City, planning
my next move. For most Private Eyes, it would have been a trip to the
Public Library to get information on the rock group "Bitchin' Heat".
But I knew of a short-cut.
I headed straight to the editorial offices of the City's biggest daily
newspaper. There, in a spacious area marked ACCENT/ENTERTAINMENT, I
brushed past a couple of secretaries and right into the office of
JoBeth Harris, the Entertainment Editor-in-chief.
"Hello Jo," I smiled, "whaddaya know?"
She tried to muster a smile at the old clich?, failed, and instead
spoke to a burly guy who was walking up behind me with the intention of
throwing me from JoBeth's office to the far side of any convenient
window.
"Let him stay, Wittowski," JoBeth sighed, "he's harmless. Close the
door on your way out and tell Maggie to hold all my calls."
The big guy nodded, glanced at me with the indifferent look of a
lumberjack eyeing a tree, and ambled off. I sat down.
"What do you want, Crayle?" JoBeth was an attractive woman with a
sharp, almost mannish face and short red hair atop a nearly six-foot
frame.
"I expected a warmer reception than this, Jo," I said, "after what I've
done for you and all...."
"I know," She softened a little. "it's just that this is June and we're
swamped with Graduation Party Announcements. You could have phoned for
an appointment, you know."
"No time," I said, "I'm on a case that you can help me with, and at my
rates, I hate to waste even minutes. You should remember that."
"You know, you do have quite a sense of integrity," JoBeth almost
smiled. "You've handled cases that are worth Millions, I've heard, and
you've dealt with some very sensitive situations. Yet you have a
reputation for complete discretion, and when you take on a job, you
always follow it through to the end. You certainly did in my case!"
A few years ago, JoBeth came to me for help with an ex-lover who was
threatening to expose some very explicit photos of the two of them
together. That would have been bad enough, but an additional
complication was that this lover was female. But it had taken me only a
few days to find and destroy the photos, plus another day-and-a-half to
persuade the blackmailing dyke that she should try the climate in
Australia.
"Tell me," JoBeth lit a cigar. "How does a man in your line of work
manage to keep looking young and innocent the way you do? With all your
years of experience you still don't look a day over Twenty."
"Clean living," I said, "but I'm not here to talk about me. What can
you tell me about a rock group called Bitchin' Heat?"
JoBeth raised an eyebrow.
"Bitchin'Heat? You must be into something really kinky!"
"You know I can't tell you about it," I said, "but as Entertainment
Editor, there ought to be a lot you can tell me."
"Well," JoBeth concentrated her thoughts. "They've been on the scene
about Four Years now. Allegedly from England, but nobody knows. Their
records sell well, even if they don't get a lot of air time, but the
group doesn't make a lot of money because of their odd performance
policy. Word has it that they're being bankrolled by a wealthy lesbian
lady who finances their albums and lets them stay every summer in her
mansion, which incidentally, is about fifty miles from here."
"What's so odd about their performance policy?" I asked.
"Bitchin' Heat plays only at private clubs and only for women. I've
heard that they put on some really kinky shows, with lots of bondage
and discipline. All this summer they'll be trying out new ideas at a
really kinky nightclub upstate: the kind of place where you get in by
Invitation Only and Bring Your Own Paddle." She smiled knowingly. "I
have a friend who's been invited there in fact. She's asked me to come
as her date, but since that little episode a few years ago, I've been
too discreet for that sort of thing."
"Interesting." I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. "Tell me: Does a band
like that draw many groupies?"
"Quite a few, in their own way," JoBeth said. "I've even heard that
they use young girls in their act sometimes. And there are rumors that
some women are brought to the estate of that rich patron of theirs.
Grandamme is her name, I think."
"JoBeth," I said, "I've got to get in to see Bitchin' Heat perform. And
you've got to help me."
"Crayle," she replied, "there is no fucking way. I've told you: they
perform only for women -- Invited Women."
"I can get around that," I said, "I can disguise myself as a woman.
I've -er-had experience at it. And you said your friend was invited. I
could go as her guest."
JoBeth tapped the ash off her cigar and tried to explain patiently.
"It just ain't that simple," she said, "men have tried it before and
ended up losing their balls over it. Guests at their performances are
subject to a very close inspection, and there's just no way a man could
pass it."
I drew a breath. I really didn't like what I was letting myself in for,
but there was no way around it.
"I could pass," I said, "I -uh- know someone who can help me and I've -
ah-done it before." I saw the look of disbelief in her eyes and went
on, "I've passed for a woman under -- well, let's just say I can do it."
I would swear that the eyes of this veteran newswoman showed an almost
girlish interest.
"You!? But how--? I mean, I guess I can see that with that wavy blonde
hair and those soft features, you could pass in drag, but... close
inspection?"
"That's right," I swallowed, remembering. My cases involving female
impersonation have all been closed successfully, but they have not been
pleasant experiences. "And I can do it again."
"Well," JoBeth considered, "it might be worth it just to see you... But
no; I don't want to let a friend in for that kind of hassle. I can't do
it."
"Of course you can," I insisted, "I can guarantee your friend won't be
in the slightest danger of having me spotted. And I'll take any other
safeguards she asks." I could see that JoBeth was going to refuse, so I
played my trump card. "And besides; Don't you think it's worth it, just
to sort of guarantee my discretion?"
JoBeth's eyes got hard as steel.
"You wouldn't tell anyone about me," she said quietly, "not with your
reputation for keeping a secret."
"I wouldn't want to," I said, "but I probably wouldn't have to. If I
know anything about newspaper office politics, there've got to be at
least a dozen secretaries and copyboys who'd love to have your job. And
if I know anything about you, you're probably still living the Gay
Life, albeit a bit more quietly these days. Now if someone on your
staff were to get the notion that it might pay to have you followed...
Well, I couldn't be blamed if you got caught this time. I mean, I
wouldn't have been respons--"
"You've made your point, Crayle," Jo Beth snapped, "I'll get in touch
with my friend. When do you want to set this up for?"
"This is Wednesday," I said, "let's make it for Friday night."
After arranging a few more details, it was all set. Or that part of it
was, anyway. I still had to make one more call. To Evelyn Traynor, the
Mistress of Feminine Disguise.
***
Waiting in the Showroom of Evelyn's TV Boutique, I wondered to myself
if I really wanted to go through all this. As I told JoBeth, I have
passed as a woman many times before, and always managed to conclude my
cases successfully. But I am not by nature a transvestite, and the
results of my female escapades have often been unpleasant for me
personally. I thought distastefully of the time those two teenagers
tricked me into playing Strip Poker with them. I had lost first my
clothes, then my masculine body hair, and finally my very identity as
the girls had lured me to this very boutique where I met Evelyn Traynor
for the first time. Thinking that I was a willing TV slave, she had
glued realistic breasts onto my hairless chest and a triangular wig
over my crotch, disguising my sex perfectly. A little makeup and a
long, long wig completed my transformation into a convincing female.
Convincing enough for my two mischievous captresses to sell me to a gay
nightclub and massage parlor!
Or there was the time I had paid Evelyn to work her wondrous craft on
my body again, turning me into a smooth-skinned, busty young lady once
more, only this time with real breasts. In this disguise, I had
actually passed as a female in a Nudist Camp in order to sabotage a
blackmailing scheme. I had solved the case all right, but as a result
of my feminine disguise, I had been forced to spend an additional six
months as the personal maid of a very talented professional dominatrix,
who delighted in inflicting pain on my feminized body while frustrating
my basic maleness. I shivered at the recollection.
And yet... And yet, here I was, back for more. I had to admit that in my
line of work, being able to pose as a sexy female had some definite
advantages. And it had certainly brought me a goodly measure of
success. My fee for that last case -- when I finally collected it -- had
been enough to cover my losses and show a very handsome profit indeed....
"Penny for your thoughts, Dear," Evelyn Traynor's soft voice broke in
on my musings. I turned from the rack of nighties I had been examining.
She was as quietly attractive as ever, a mature lady, somewhere in her
forties, perhaps, with light brown hair attractively styled, and a
pretty, intelligent face, highlighted by subtle makeup. It would have
been perfectly understandable for a woman in a business like Evelyn's
to over-dress and overdo her makeup. But Evelyn always dressed and did
her face with quiet style and real class, emphasizing her genuine
femininity.
"Oh, it's you, Clinton." Evelyn smiled warmly. "Have you finally
decided to express your other side again?"
"If you mean Do I want to look like a woman again, the answer is Yes,"
I said, reddening a little. "But I've told you before: I don't have a
female side. This is strictly business."
"Yes, I know what you've told me, Sweet." Evelyn's manner was more
knowing than ever. "And I'm impressed that you go to such lengths with
your private fantasies. But really, you don't need to make up these
elaborate excuses for coming here. I mean, if you can't freely admit
your transsexual desires to me, who can you admit them to?"
I felt myself getting redder than ever.
"It's not true!" I blurted. "I'm not a transvestite! Someday I'll show
you that I'm all male."
"But for right now...?"
"For right now," I admitted, "I'm going to need the 'Total' treatment.
A complete feminine transformation from the skin out."
"I thought so." Evelyn was all business now. "Go on to the back room
and get undressed. I'll be right along."
Lying naked on the adjustable makeup chair in Evelyn's back room, I
tried to hide my embarrassment (which was the only thing I could hide)
as she calmly evaluated my body.
"I see that the experimental hormone you took is still having a
lingering effect," she said. "Your skin is almost completely hairless
and unusually soft and smooth for a man. Your hips and buttocks are
just a tiny bit rounder, especially with that narrow waist of yours;
and isn't your chest shaped just a little bit like breasts?"
"I guess it is," I said uncomfortably. "I was supposed to be on strong
doses of male hormone for a year after that last episode, but I guess
I've gotten a -uh- little careless about taking it lately."
"Ummm-hmmm." Evelyn nodded, trying to suppress a smile. "Well I'd
better warn you that the effects of another treatment right now might
be rather unpredictable. There's no way of telling how much of that
experimental female hormone might still be stored in your glands and
skin tissues. So if I give you any shots, they could very possibly
react with it and cause a strong and long-lasting effect."
"I've already thought of that," I said, still very aware of Evelyn's
piercing eyes on my nudity. "And I'll have to risk it. This should be
only a one-or-two day job anyway."
"All right, Sweetie," Evelyn filled a hypodermic syringe with a
solution that would swell up my breasts. "We'll do it your way. But
remember: I strongly advise against taking any more female hormone. And
particularly against taking it on a long-term basis -- no matter how
much you enjoy feeling feminine -- unless you're prepared for a change
that may be permanent!"
I opened my mouth to reply, then shut it quickly and gritted my teeth
as Evelyn gave the first of the shots under my breasts.
Four injections later, both of us breathed a sigh of relief as Evelyn
put the syringe away and pulled a small jar out of a nearby cabinet.
"Now while your breasts grow, I'll get you fitted with a feminine
disguise for that male equipment down there," She mischievously pinched
my genitals, then began covering my balls and the base of my cock with
some sort of lotion.
"You'd be surprised at some of the things my friends and I have
developed over the last few years," Evelyn said. "This special glue,
for instance, will not only hold your disguise in place, but also will
actually act as an astringent, temporarily shrinking your goodies to a
much more manageable size."
"And I suppose that, as usual, it can't be removed without special
solvent?" I asked.
"Naturally!" Evelyn produced a small object of semi-flexible plastic,
shaped like half of an egg shell. Running across the top was a tube
made of the same material, bonded to the egg-shaped part.
With an expertise born of practice, Evelyn slipped my shrunken penis
into the plastic tube, then fitted the oval portion tightly over my
scrotum, pushing my cock and balls back between my legs. She held it
there for four minutes, until the glue had set completely,
"All set!" Evelyn said at last. "Stand up and see the new you--or is it
the real you?"
The image in the mirror was perfectly feminine: luscious, well-shaped
and blushing with modesty as she tried to hide her girlish nudity in
front of the mirror. Shapely legs, slim waist, curvy boobs and butt... I
shook my head, trying to return my mind to reality.
Evelyn giggled mischievously.
"Enough of this." My voice seemed higher, softer than usual. "Get me a
wide elastic band to contain these things." My breasts jiggled for
emphasis. "Fortunately, I wore loose-fitting clothes over here. And
I'll take those artificial nails with me."
And after a little more small talk and settling the bill (which would
go on my expense account) I was gone.
I kept to my apartment for the whole of the next day, getting used to
my female body once again, brushing up on how to move, talk, and act
like a woman. And putting on my artificial fingernails. These proved to
be very strong, nicely rounded, and a brilliant red in color. I painted
my toenails a matching shade, admiring the visually striking effect.
Friday morning I got a phone call from JoBeth.
"It's all set up for tonight," she said, "the club where they're
appearing is a couple hours' drive from here, so my friend and I will
meet you at a motel nearby. Can you find Monk's Auto Court on Route
117?"
"Sure," I said. I had passed that anonymous collection of cubicles
several times on trips upstate. "How will I find you?"
"My friend and I will be in Number Twelve. Just park in front and come
on in. Are you sure you're -uh- ready?"
"Completely," I said, "all I have to do is pick out some feminine
clothes and--"
"Hold on," JoBeth interrupted, "that's something I'm supposed to tell
you. My friend Naomi wants you to come to the Motel dressed as a man."
"Dressed as a man?" I protested. "But I can't get into the club that
way! You said they only allow women."
"That's right," JoBeth said, "but Naomi says that the only way she'll
agree to escort you is if she gets to pick out your outfit. And the
best way to guarantee that is for you not to bring any feminine clothes
with you. Since you said you'd agree to any conditions, I assumed
there'd be no problem. Of course, I can still call the whole trip off
if...."
"No," I said, feeling somewhat apprehensive, "I'll do it."
"Fine," There was a laugh somewhere in JoBeth's voice. "See you Friday
at Six!'
All the way up Route 117, I felt an uneasy tingle in my stomach. My
breasts, which had grown to a 38-C, felt suffocated in the elastic band
that was supposed to minimize their size. My hips and ass threatened to
split the seams of the pants I wore, yet the waistband of those pants
was much too large for my narrow middle. My voice and skin had both
become much softer, and even without makeup, my face seemed quite
feminine. My bright red fingernails were hidden by gloves that seemed
ridiculous in this late-June weather. And, inside my pants, I still
felt the presence of that incredibly realistic mock-pussy, disguising
my male genitals.
It was just Six PM when I pulled up in front of Cabin Twelve at Monk's
Auto Court and got out. There was a late-model, expensive-looking car
in the drive with smoked windows and Physician's license plates. I
wondered if it belonged to Jo Beth's friend Naomi. Well, one way to
find out, I thought. I knocked at the door.
Almost immediately, it was opened by an attractive, dark-haired woman.
"Clinton Crayle?" she asked, looking me up and down closely.
"That's right," I said nervously.
She stepped back for me to enter and turned her head.
"JoBeth, he's here!" she called.
As Naomi closed and locked the door behind me, JoBeth came in from the
bathroom.-
"I see you made it, Hot-Shot," she said. "Naomi, this is Clinton
Crayle, Private Eye and -- to hear him tell it -- Master of Disguise.
Crayle, this is Doctor Naomi Bernstein."
I looked at the woman. She was short, with a petite frame, but her arms
seemed firm and strong in the short-sleeved dress she wore. Her face
was unusual, but intriguing, with hooded brown eyes under gracefully-
arching narrow eyebrows, an aquiline nose, and a wide, sensuously
curved mouth which opened to reveal large white teeth. Her was dark, as
I said, and very curly, tumbling down to her shoulders. And as she
looked at me, I felt that her gaze was sharp, intelligent, and just a
bit predatory.
"Charmed, I'm sure." Her accent was pure Boston. "Okay, Clinton: Peel
the tomato."
"What?" I asked, startled.
"You heard," she said, "peel the tomato. Strip. Disrobe. Let's have a
look at this disguise of yours."
"Yes, Clinton," JoBeth chimed in, "I'm interested in this myself. Let's
see you!"
Feeling self-conscious, I sat down on the bed and slipped off my shoes
and socks. Both girls smiled at my painted toenails. Trembling a
little, I stood and unbuttoned my shirt. Slipped it off. Beneath my T-
shirt, the elastic band that confined my breasts was clearly visible. I
dropped my trousers. My male shorts seemed empty in front, although
they were stretched nearly to breaking in the rear. Finally, deciding
to get it over with as quickly as I could, I snatched off shorts, T-
shirt, and elastic band, and stood there, exposed before the women.
Naomi let out a soft whistle. "Jeeze!" JoBeth almost gasped, "I never
would have believed it. What the Hell did you do to yourself, Crayle?"
"Never mind," I said. "The breasts are real. The pussy isn't, but it
works as good as it looks, if you know what I mean. Well, do I pass?"
"With flying colors!" Naomi said. "When JoBeth talked me into this, I
was ready to back out at any time. But now that I've seen you, wild
horses couldn't stop me. The girls at the Club will just go ape when I
walk in with you as my Slave!"
"As your-- Slave?" My eyes opened in surprise.
"That's right, Peeper," JoBeth cracked a smile. "You said Any
Conditions, remember? Well, Naomi's decided she wants to score points
with some of the other girls who hang out at the Club, and the best way
to do that is by bringing in her own little Slave Girl. YOU!"
"But I'm not... I'll have things I need to do there," I tried to protest,
"I told you, this is for an investigation. I might need to look into
something or--"
"Listen, Dearie," Naomi Bernstein put her hands on her hips and shot a
warning look from her dark, hooded eyes. "Without my help, you won't
get in there at all. I know you think you've got JoBeth over a barrel
and you can dictate to her, but the only one who can actually get you
into the Club is me." She looked me up and down, and her lip curled
slightly. "I'm the one you have to deal with now, so you'd better start
thinking about what I want. And I say that you either go to the club as
my slave, or you don't go at all. Well?"
Tamera
- 23.07.2022
- 17
- 0
