Maybe It's Magic - Chapter 5 free porn video

Maybe It's Magic by RH Music Chapter 5: The Closet and the Beauty Salon I am walking on the quad when I hear my physics advisor. "Marshall, can I talk to you?" I turn around to face Professor Manichev, feeling a bit sheepish that I've forgotten to stop by his office for two weeks to get my reading assignments. "Oh! I'm sorry, Miss. From behind you looked like a student of mine." Manichev looks me up and down, and I see his eyes lingering on my chest. Suddenly self-conscious, I hold my book bag to my chest. Are my breasts that obvious? But I'm wearing the ugly brown sweater! I make a mental note to check them out when I get home. "Professor," I say, desperately trying to lower my voice to Marshall range, but mostly failing. When Professor Manichev called me 'miss' my voice just automatically shifted upwards. It's getting harder and harder these days to speak in my normal voice. "It's me. Marshall." "MARSHALL?" He looks at me closely for the longest time. "I... but..." he stumbles. But then, finally he recognizes me, I see it in his eyes. But then, another problem. He's trying to figure out how to deal with this new information. "I'm sorry I haven't been able to complete my reading assignments recently," I apologize, to cover the silence. "I've been... um... very busy recently." "Yes, I see," he says. "Of course." He pauses awkwardly. "So, um, I'll come by on Monday to get the new assignments?" I ask. "Oh, right. Of course. Good idea. No problem... ah... Marshall. So, listen. My wife and I serve Thanksgiving dinner for any physics students who are unable to go home for the holiday and so naturally I thought of you. Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?" "No, I don't have plans, thank you, Professor!" "Well then. My house is on 110 Maple, just up the road. Drinks at 6, dinner's at 7." * * * I get back to my room late that afternoon and the house is empty. Morgen and Mr. Feyla have both left to drive up to her aunt Marilyn's for Thanksgiving. It's Wednesday which means that I have the entire house to myself for the next four days. But first thing's first. I go to my bedroom and examine my breasts in the mirror. But the mirror there is too small. So is the one in the bathroom. I think to myself. I need a full length mirror... Mr. Feyla's bedroom! Of course I've been in the master bedroom lots of times, picking up and putting away Mr. Feyla's clothes and making his bed after I've washed his sheets. The mirror is antique and on a carved wooden stand. When I see my image in it, I do look like a girl! How could I have not have noticed! Worse, I look like an old fashioned girl from the 1940's. The curve of my breasts is obvious. Darn it! I try fluffing up the sweater, making it more bulky. It helps... but just a bit. As an experiment, I walk across the room and back. Gosh darn it! The sweater has settled down across my body and there they are again. Breasts. I have breasts. Big, luscious boobs. They swing and sway as I walk. They lift up when I stretch my arms over my head. I shake my shoulders back and forth and they wobble, pulling on my skin. Suddenly I can feel their weight which makes me pull my shoulders back to counterbalance, which makes them stick out even further. I seem to have been doing this unconsciously all day. Maybe all week! What the heck is going on? Suddenly my boobs seem a *lot* bigger. When did this happen? Did I simply not notice this earlier? Or did it somehow happen overnight? Or have they been growing so slowly that I only just noticed how big they've become? I strip off the ugly brown sweater. My plaid shirt is straining under the size of my breasts, the buttons pulling at the button holes. Of course, it's a man's shirt, so it makes sense. It's not designed for, you know, big lumps 'up there'. I strip off the shirt and examine my breasts. They have clearly outgrown the bra and are bulging over the top. I try loosening the shoulder straps, only to discover that they are already as loose as they can be. When did that happen? I must have unconsciously loosened them. Until they could no longer get any looser? I want to see my entire body. I kick off my shoes and socks and strip down to panties and bra. Oh my god, have I always looked so... bulgy and blobby? Suddenly my hips and thighs look enormous. I turn left and right and notice how my bottom appears to be bigger too. What the heck is going on? And my waist! When did it get so small? How can this happen. Have I always been this way and I just never noticed? ** It's the magic ** The words whisper into my brain, but I shake them away. There's no such thing as magic! I am a physicist, and I study the real world -- not some crazy fake world of woodland sprites and witches and faeries and magic curses. But I look closer. My face seems more feminine too... I shake out my hair a bit. Of course it's long, but no worse than other men of the 1970s. I look around and find a hair brush on the dressing table. Mrs. Feyla's dressing table. I use it to brush out my hair and then return to the mirror. Wow... My brain teeters on the edge of insanity. Am I Marshall? Or am I Kelly? Am I a man... or a woman? I look around the room, feeling panicky and adrift. Why did Morgen have to be away, right when I'm in the middle of this crisis? And Mr. Feyla? Why couldn't he be here? This is his bedroom after all. I could use a hug. But there's nothing I can do but hug myself while staring in the mirror, trying to decide if I'm still Marshall or not. Finally, I settle down and start to think straight. First thing's first, I need to do something about the bra. Now that I can see how my breasts are bulging out all over the place, I can feel how uncomfortable the bra is. I need something which can accommodate my new enhancements... and maybe even help to flatten them out, if that's possible. I look around the room and my eyes settle on the forbidden dresser drawers. I say forbidden because those are the dresser drawers which belonged to Mrs. Feyla - and I never touch them. Of course I go into Mister Feyla's drawers all the time, because I'm always putting away his cotton boxer shorts, undershirts and socks. I know his drawers and their contents intimately. But the other dresser... I slowly walk over to it. It's a functional piece of furniture which reaches to my waist. It has six wide drawers, two on top, two in the middle and two on the bottom. It's antique with dark wood beading around the edges and carved fluted column-like ornaments on the sides. The top is covered with a delicate lace runner and there's a jewelry box with a selection of perfume bottles arranged in one corner and an empty vase in the other. Did the vase once contain flowers from Mr. Feyla to his wife? I imagine Mr. Feyla coming home with flowers for his wife's birthday and her placing them here for her to see whenever she got dressed. It's like I can actually smell the delicate scent of roses in the room. I reach for the top drawer but stop. Should I be doing this? This is Mrs. Feyla's personal space, her personal things. I hesitate, trying to decide what to do. ** open it ** Says a voice in my head. I feel a thrill run through my body and for some bizarre reason I feel tingly with an anxious desire. I shouldn't be doing this. I should definitely NOT be doing this! What would happen if Morgen or Mr. Feyla found out? I'd probably be kicked out of the house as a pervert. I should just go back to my room until Morgen gets back and then tell her about my problem. She'll be able to help. I should just turn around and leave the room before I get into more trouble. But I don't. The thrill of exploring the contents of these feminine compartments is too much. What is in Mrs. Feyla's dresser drawers? I watched Morgen sift through them, so I have an idea. But I want to explore them for myself. And I have a four day weekend stretching ahead of me, all alone in this modest house in this old New Jersey college town. All by myself... My hand reaches for the handle and I slowly slide it open to reveal its contents. Oh.... I feel a thrill run through me. My nipples tighten. The top drawer is full of bras and panties, all more sturdy and more old fashioned than the ones I've been wearing. They are made of stretchy lace with large elastic bands with hooks and straps. The feminine smell of potpourri which rises up to greet me is delicious and I want to bury my face in it. Mrs. Feyla was clearly a very feminine woman. I reach down and start to sift through the bras, and then immediately stop. Damn it, I should have been keeping track of how the bras were arranged! So I could return them to their exact original position! Will Mr. Feyla notice that someone has been riffling through his wife's undergarments? I freeze in panic. What should I do? But then I look around the room and come to my senses. Such an idea is ridiculous. There is no way that Mr. Feyla has somehow memorized the arrangement of his wife's undergarments from over a year ago. As long as I return them to the dresser when I'm done, no one will be the wiser. There will be no harm done. ** You're snooping through a dead woman's lingerie ** Says the voice in my head. I feel a shiver of cold and the hairs on my arms stand on end. What was that? But I can't stop now. I carefully, reverently, examine each bra, trying to decide which one I want to wear the most. Each one is special in its own way. There are shelf bras which show lots of cleavage, strapless bras for fancy evenings out (does that mean she has a strapless gown somewhere? I glance to the closet) and simple nylon and elastic bras for wearing everyday. I finally decide on a simple, Playtex 'Cross Your Heart' SoftSider tricot bra. It has soft inner cups and is covered in a stretchy lace fabric with adjustable satin straps and it fastens in back. I strip off my bra and massage my breasts, feeling their weight and heft. They are so large... real breasts! I massage them - oh, that feels so nice. I pinch the nipples which are now fat and crinkly. I have real breasts. Breasts that would draw the attention of any man. Breasts for feeding babies... Playing with them feels nice, and normally I would just lie in bed stroking them and rubbing between my legs. But I have other things on my mind right now, like will this bra fit more comfortably? And will it help to hide my breasts under the sweater? And so I put on the bra, fastening the hooks in the front before turning it around and slipping it on. Oh yes... Adjusting myself in the bra I can immediately feel how much better this is. It's almost a perfect fit. My breasts feel comfortable and at home, maybe even with some room to grow. I adjust the shoulder straps, giving me a bit more lift. Oh, the cleavage! I have yummy cleavage between my boobs and I just stare and stare. I slip a finger between them, feeling where the soft mounds come together. I imagine what a man might think if he were to see this. I imagine that it's his fingers stroking down that soft womanly curve... "Probably he would want to take me, right here and now," the thought runs through my head makes me squirm. Okay, so that's the bra settled. Now what do I do about my blobby bottom? Before I move on, I sift through Mrs. Feyla's panties. I notice that they are mostly similar to the ones I am already wearing. I find a shiny blue pair with delicate lace around the hips. I decide to put them on. At least they're blue, right? That's more manly than the pink cotton panties with that I'm currently wearing. Right? Of course they are a light pastel blue, so I'm not sure that really counts. Mmm... they feel nice as I slip them on. I pull them up and adjust myself. ** You have put on Mrs. Feyla's panties ** Says the voice in my head. Mrs. Feyla - Morgen's mother and Richard's late wife... and I am wearing her panties. Her panties are tight around my bottom and cupping my crotch. The thought that I'm wearing Richard's late wife's panties is weird and makes me feel breathless. And even though I feel excited, nothing happens 'down there'. I remain soft. It's just a small bulge. I rub myself and squeeze my breasts before moving on. The next drawer is full of sweaters and cardigans. Some are plain, some are decorated with small beads or pearls sewn in pretty designs. There's a sweater missing. It's my ugly brown one, of course. The next drawer is of socks and hosiery. Socks are carefully arranged by color and not balled up but folded. I make a mental note to do this for Mr. Feyla when I next do his laundry. With a thrill, I sift through the hosiery, marveling in the gossamer fabric which slips through my fingers. And garters! Oh my god, I almost faint. Stockings and garters, is there anything sexier? I wonder if she wore these for Mr. Feyla. Perhaps for a fancy night out and then a special treat when they got home to bed? In addition I notice packets and packets of pantyhose, like the kinds that Morgen gave me. It looks like we wear the same size. That's interesting... The next drawer contains slips and nightgowns. There are half slips with elastic waists and full slips, with spaghetti straps. All of them are white or cream colored and made of a slippery nylon fabric. The nightgowns cover a wide range, from warm & fuzzy cotton gowns to more shear gowns decorated with lace panels and satin bows. Most are long but there are a couple of very short ones. Are these baby dolls nighties? I wonder. Oh.... The next drawer contains girdles and corsets! I suck in my breath with a jolt of pleasure. Suddenly I am thrust into a forbidden world of feminine foundation wear. I remember peeking at my mother once when she was getting dressed and seeing her putting on these tight restricting garments. And now here they are, all of her secret, body shaping, tummy controlling tight and restricting items. I slowly go through them, one by one, holding each and testing the stretch of the fabric. There are stretchy control top panties, long legged and high-waisted girdles, stretchy corsets with bra cups built in, corsets with open bottoms and garters, panty girdles with garters and lots more. The girdles have names like "I Can't Believe It's a Girdle," "Sears Hose Hugger," "18 Hour Girdle" (is it really supposed to be worn for 18 hours??), "Vanity Fair", "Smoothie All in One", "Hold Me Tight", "Sculptress" and "Confection by Maidenform". The fabrics are similarly evocative and include Nylon, Lycra, Spandex, and something called Elastodien. I am almost faint with joy. But why? Why do these garments excite me so much? After all, I'm a man... Right? Who would want to be thrust into such tight, restrictive, hugging, constricting... Oh god. I have to stop and rub myself. Finally I make my choice. It's a pull on Playtex panty girdle (to match my new bra) called "No Body's Perfect" made of Nylon and Spandex Lycra with short legs and garters. Just fabric names get me excited. It has a shiny panel on the front and extra reinforcement for my bottom. It looks perfect. I step into it. It's basically a tight tube of heavy, stretchy fabric with leg holes. I work it up my smooth, shaved legs, wondering if perhaps it's too small. Surely, this thing can't possibly stretch to accommodate my bottom, can it? But it does. But after some grunting and tugging, I am finally able to pull it on. It slips over my nylon panties and pulls up tight, pressing against my tummy and bottom and smoothing everything out. Oh... I run my fingers over the smooth, insanely tight fabric, feeling how sensitive it makes me feel. I reach down and adjust the bulge between my legs. In the process I feel my... um... my 'walnuts' slip into my body. This makes the area between my legs almost perfectly smooth, leaving only a slight mound. I quickly step over to the mirror and check myself out. Oh! So nice and smooth! I admire my bottom from many angles. The girdle has smoothed out all of the bumps and bulges which I had seen before. I want to wear it. I want to wear it forever. Now I need hosiery. Morgen is always insistent: "You can't wear skirts or dresses with naked legs. It's just not proper for a lady like you." But this time I have garter tabs, so pantyhose won't be appropriate. Not this time. So I open up the hosiery drawer and find what I need. Stockings. I sit on the bed with the stockings. They are so slippery and delicate in my fingers. Like holding smoke made physical. Goosebumps run up my arms. Carefully I gather up one of the stockings. I point my toes out straight and slip it on, pulling it up until it reaches the garters. After some fumbling, I figure out how the rubber button of the garter slips into the metal loop and I fasten it up. Then I use the adjustment to tighten up the garter. Then I do up the other garter strap. Oh. I run my fingers up and down my leg. Stockings feel so much better than pantyhose! Of course, pantyhose feel great too, but the stockings... they are finer and so much more luxurious. I quickly slip on the other stocking and fasten it in place with the garters. I imagine watching myself from afar, an old-fashioned lady in her bra and girdle, putting on stockings, leg bent, toes pointed, and then fastening the stockings in place with the garter tabs. Perhaps the most feminine picture in the world. Standing I make some final adjustments and then trot lightly back to the mirror where I admire my beautiful legs. Of course I have been shaving them every morning in the shower, just like Morgen told me to. Even if it seems they don't need it, I do it anyway. So by now, my legs are nice and smooth and they look *amazing* in stockings. I spend some time just stroking my self in my new lingerie, feeling the bra, the girdle and the stockings, running my fingers over the ribbons in the garters, wriggling my toes in the feet of the hose. I sigh with pleasure. But isn't this wrong? After all, I am wearing a dead woman's lingerie. This is Mrs. Feyla's most intimate clothing, and I'm wearing it next to my body, stroking my skin. Isn't this a violation of the Feyla family? ** this is where you belong ** Says a voice in my head. Knowing that all of this has been previously worn my Mrs. Feyla makes me feel funny inside. Almost as if she is the one dressing me rather than me dressing myself. But it feels so right... But now I feel like I need makeup. I look in the mirror and my face and hair are a mess! I sit down at the dressing table on the wide upholstered stool. The dressing table is also an antique, made of dark wood with wood inlay, on tall narrow fluted spindle legs in a style to match the dresser drawers and with two small drawers on either side. I turn on the side lamp (an ornate Victorian-style ceramic lamp with a lace shade) and look at myself critically in the mirror. Not bad, I decide. There's no stubble whatsoever. When was the last time I shaved? I certainly don't need to shave now. But my lips are boring and my skin could use a little smoothing out. Without thinking, I reach for some foundation. The jar lid sticks a bit, but I finally get it open and dab some on my cheeks with my fingers and then blend it in. I follow this with some powder and decide to add a little bit of blush. I look around for eyeshadow, finally finding some in a palette of colors in the side drawer. Using the small pad, I gently apply some to my lids to make them stand out a bit. I decide to skip the eyeliner. After all, I just need a bit of brightening up. Finally, lipstick. I find a whole drawer full of tubes on the right hand side and pick one out. Wow, that's red! I'm just about to put it on when I stop-- What am I doing? I sit back and look at myself in the dressing table mirror. I look around the room and shiver. Here I am, sitting at Mrs. Feyla's dressing table, wearing her lingerie, and putting on her makeup! I look at the lipstick. It actually has a lip-shaped indentation on it where she applied it to her own lips. Oh god... the last person to use this lipstick *was* Mrs. Feyla... Richard's late wife and Morgen's mother. I sit there, holding the lipstick in one hand, frozen, unable to decide what to do. Oh my god, I feel so feminine... so womanly. Putting on makeup... it feels so natural. So much like what I'm supposed to do... ** finish ** I hear the voice whisper in my head. ** it's okay ** I look around. It's almost as if I actually heard something, although I know it's all in my head. Probably my mind just trying to justify what I'm doing. I raise the lipstick, the indentation matching the curve of my own lip, and I apply the lipstick. Mrs. Feyla's lipstick. I am applying her lipstick - a dead woman's lipstick to my own lips. Her lips were the ones to touch this last. For sure I am going to hell. So, now my makeup is done. Now what? If only my hair wasn't so messy, I think to myself. I brush it out, but it's not that great. It's really the only part which is just not right. A piece of paper flutters to the floor. ** Coupon for 10 Free Beauty Appointments ** The coupon has the numbers 1 through 10 on it. Five of them are marked off. Oh god. I stare at it, feeling totally freaked out now. Here I am thinking about my hair, and a coupon for a hair appointment drops to the floor? But it has to be coincidence, right? Because there's no such thing as Magic. There's no such thing as magic! I turn it over. ** Miriam, a little 'thank you' for helping me with Ed -- Janice ** So apparently Mrs. Feyla helped her hairdresser, and got repaid with 10 free appointments. Interesting. * * * I pick up my male clothes and walk through the empty house in Mrs. Feyla's lingerie, feeling deliciously naughty. The garters pull at my stockings as I walk and the silky fabric strokes my legs. I walk quickly through the kitchen, the linoleum floor of the kitchen cold on my stocking feet. Once in my bedroom, I put on a simple white lace blouse, a plaid skirt and the brown pumps with the 2-inch blocky heel. I fasten the ankle strap. But there is still something of a chill in the air. It is late autumn in New Jersey. It would be nice to have a sweater to wear, but not that stupid ugly brown one... I walk back through the house, my heels clack-clacking on the linoleum kitchen floor and open up Mrs. Feyla's sweater drawer and find a perfect long-sleeve cream cardigan with pearl buttons that goes with the plaid skirt. I put it on and arrange the lapels of my blouse over top and then go to check myself out in the mirror. I look so cute! I twirl about, letting the skirts fly out and brush against my legs. When I do that, the stocking tops show, just underneath the skirts - I imagine the effect that would have on a man! If only my hair was better.... I look over at the dressing table at the coupon which is sitting there. But no, that's ridiculous, I decide. I head back to the sewing room to start on my homework (circle skirts!). * * * But of course there's a mirror in the sewing room. And of course I glance at it constantly as I'm sewing. And every time I do, I just can't help wishing that my hair was better. It looks so unkempt, flying all over... so flat and... just... blah. I wonder what it would look like with a style like Mary Tyler Moore? Or Jane Fonda. Or Adrienne Barbeau. Or Lynda Day George. Or Lee Meriwether? I slam down my scissors. "It's just not fair!" I say out loud, to the empty house. All of those women have such beautiful hair!! Why can't I have beautiful hair too? I get up and run trippingly back to the Mrs. Feyla's dressing table and fetch the coupon. Why not? I wonder. After all, school is out. Campus is like a ghost town. Morgen and Richard are away. No one will see me... I run back to my room for my wallet, my blocky heels clack-clacking against the hardwood floors as I walk down the hallway. Huhn. I have no pockets in this skirt! There's no place to put my wallet. I look around. Should I take my bookbag? But I think about how that will look - stupid, basically. I don't want to carry a dumb bookbag to the salon. No, what I really want is... ... a purse. There were purses in Mrs. Feyla's dresser drawers! I run back to the master bedroom. The purses are just where I saw them, wrapped in tissue paper in the bottom left hand drawer along with other items (mirrors, small brushes, combs, etc.) that you might find in a purse. But when I pull them out, I see that these are all 'dress up' purses for fancy date nights out. They are heavily beaded and so small my wallet won't even fit in them (so what do women do? I wonder. Just have loose cash in their purse?) I look around. Maybe... the closet? Mr. and Mrs. Feyla have separate his and hers closets. I have never been into hers before. I open the door and peak in. ** come in ** Stepping into the room is like stepping back in time, into a warm embrace. It wraps around me and envelops me, like a physical presence. It is still and dusty and smells of moth balls. On the back wall is a window to the back yard with some light coming through the curtains. The walls are lined with hangers and shelves with boxes. I am faint with the over abundance of clothes and shoes. I stand for a while, just soaking it all in. I run my fingers lightly over the soft casual dresses, the crisp skirts, the diaphanous blouses, the luxurious fancy dresses until I arrive at a section with stacks of boxes... and purses. So many! I sift through the purses until I find a simple brown leather purse with a long shoulder strap. Perfect. I have walked almost to the back of the closet. It is a close-in cave of femininity, a glorious testament to fashion and beauty and womanhood. I imagine myself spending hours and days plumbing all its secret depths. ** please do ** Freaked, I hurry out, quickly closing the closet door behind me. * * * Finally, I am ready to go to the beauty salon. I have my purse, I have the coupon. I'm wearing Mrs. Feyla's Playtex "Cross Your Heart" bra and her Playtex "No Body's Perfect" girdle with beautiful sheer stockings attached to the garter tabs and brown pumps with two-inch blocky heels. I have on a very short, plaid, flared wool skirt with a white blouse under a figure-hugging cardigan with pearl buttons. I sling the purse over my shoulder. I'm all set. I walk out the kitchen to the driveway and the door slams behind me. I freeze. Oh my god, what am I doing?? I stand just outside the side door, mostly hidden from the road, unable to move. My heart is suddenly pounding in my throat. What am I doing outside?? I breath in short gasps, looking around, frantically as I try to figure out what to do. I had just waltzed outside the door like I did it every day, but now I am about to *actually walking out in the public* as Kelly! What the heck am I doing?? Nope! I can't do it. I'm too chicken. I head back inside but in my haste I slam right into the door. Then I try again. I rattle the door knob. Shit! I'm locked outside! I rifle through my purse. Where are the keys? Where are the darn keys??? I forgot the keys! I was so focused on my wallet and adding spare makeup and tissues that I forgot the keys! I look around, like a dear caught in headlights, trying to figure out what to do. Trapped... Trapped outside! The neighbor? I know the next door neighbor has a spare set of keys for just this occasion. Morgen told me about them before she and Mr. Feyla left on their trip. But... oh god... that means showing myself... dressed as a woman... before the neighbors... But what else can I do? It's only Wednesday, and Morgen and Mr. Feyla won't be home until Monday. Even if I could call them, just driving home would take them until tomorrow. And besides, the number of Morgen's Aunt Marlyn is inside, taped to the refrigerator door. And it's not like I can sleep outside. Darn it!! Why'd I have to be so careless?? I fidget in the driveway for a few more minutes, trying to figure out what to do. But there is only one possible course of action. On unsteady legs, I walk down the driveway and step onto the sidewalk, feeling exposed. I'm in public, as Kelly! The cool autumn air rides up my skirt, caressing my legs. How do women stand it, feeling so exposed like this? The skirts dance over my legs as I desperately try to push them down without looking like I'm desperately trying to push them down. I nervously make my way to the neighbor's house, looking left and right and wondering if anyone is watching. I've never met the neighbors which I now realize is a good thing. They won't know who I am, and therefore they won't know that I used to be a man. If I'm convincing enough as a woman, then maybe they'll forget about the entire meeting and never talk about it? Okay, but I need to be convincing as a woman. So, before I ring the doorbell, I fetch a brush from my purse and brush my hair quickly a couple of times. Then I thrust out my chest a bit (look, I have boobs!) and then ring the bell. Nothing. I listen carefully for some sort of motion in the house - any sort of sound. I ring the bell a second time. Nothing. I wait another five minutes, but it's clear that there's nobody home. Probably, the neighbor husband hasn't gotten home from work yet and the neighbor wife and kids are out shopping or something. I look up and down the street. Should I just sit and wait here on the front steps? I take a few tentative steps back to the sidewalk. Am I really doing this?? I look up and down the street. It's empty. I feel alone, out in the world, like on a boat at sea. A woman on a street in a small New Jersey town in the cool afternoon air of late November. It could be hours before the neighbors get home. I can't stand out here like this. I really should have some sort of destination. Someplace to go and something to do which can take a couple of hours. I look down the street towards town. Am I really doing this? I turn left and start walking towards Main Street. Oh god, I'm doing it. I'm really doing it. I stop for a second to settle my nerves and my breath and slow down. No need to rush. Just keep walking. Just like any other day. You are a girl, a student, a girl-student just like any other girl-student. Just walking to Main Street, like hundreds... thousands! of girl-students have. Nothing to see here. Don't mind me. I'm not a boy dressed as a girl, I'm just an ordinary girl, a girl-student... I see an older couple turning the corner at the end of the block. They are out for their afternoon constitutional, perhaps to build up an appetite for dinner. It takes every last ounce of my willpower to not take off running in the other direction. "Beautiful day?" The man says pleasantly as we pass each other. "Oh!" I respond, surprised. "Yes! Yes it is." I give him a small, nervous smile, and they both return it with a warm wave. I look back. They are walking quietly with an occasional word, looking for all the world like nothing unusual just happened. Like they didn't happen to just walk past this male student named Marshall pretending to be a woman. Just an ordinary Wednesday, walking around the neighborhood. * * * It takes a couple more blocks before I realize that he was absolutely correct. It *is* a beautiful day. The trees are mostly bare now, being late November, and the temperature is cool, but not bitter. The sky is a gorgeous blue, streaked with pink clouds. I finally relax. As I walk I start to notice things. The soft cuffs of the cashmere cardigan on my wrists. My breasts gently swaying in the cups of the bra, feeling supported and comfortable. The gentle pull of the garters on my stockings. My clunky heels clack-clacking as I carefully look to avoid cracks and bulges from the trees planted too close to the sidewalk. The feeling of the leather purse strap on my shoulder. The cool air and the late afternoon sun on my face. I take a deep breath and smile. Is there anything better than a New Jersey college town in late Autumn? A woman comes up from behind me. "Kelly? Is that you?" "Professor Chambers?" I squeak. It's her! Standing right beside me!! "It *is* you! Well, Kelly, I must say. My suspicions have been confirmed." "What suspicions?" I ask, shivering. Professor Chambers starts walking, indicating that we should continue down the street together. "And my stars, don't you clean up nice! Just look at you! So fresh faced and enjoying life." "But Professor Chambers," I persist. "What were your suspicions?" "Oh, that you were a woman all along. You said you were a man, and okay, I played along, but then it became increasingly obvious. There's only so much you can hide under that awful brown sweater and those ugly pants you wear to school. And you are too good a seamstress to be a man. And now look at you! Don't you look just darling! Goodness knows why you would want to hide your beautiful body at school and pretend you're a man, but that's okay. I'm modern. I don't judge. Different strokes for different folks, I always say. Where are you headed on such a beautiful day?" "Uh... to... uh... the beauty salon," I stammer, cursing myself for being unable to think of a good lie. "Oh good! I am so glad. It's about time you took care of that ratty hair. Good for you!" "Thank you, Professor," I say, wondering why I'm thanking her. "And how is your homework?" "Oh, good! I've almost finished my circle skirt. I had no idea that sewing a skirt could be so much fun!" Professor Chambers stops, and turns to me. "Kelly, I just wanted to say, it is a pleasure to have you in my class. I had my doubts when you first started, but I can see now that you have the true heart and soul and maternal instincts of a family caregiver, who lives to feed and clothe and clean and make life a joy for all those around her." "Oh," I flush under her praise, feeling embarrassed, "I don't think--" "And that is why I have decided to give you extra homework." "WHAT?? More homework?? Now wait a minute--" "Here's a packet of patterns that I just received," she pulled a brightly colored paper envelope from her purse. "Since the circle skirt was so easy, let's see if you can make a peasant blouse to go with it. Do you have bias tape and elastic?" "I think so--" "Excellent." "But Professor Chambers--!" "And since you'll have plenty of time over break, I'll want to see your completed homework on Monday." "Monday??" I gasp. "Kelly...?" She says with a warning in her voice, as if she might take back all her praise at a moment's notice. "Yes, Professor." I submit, my shoulders slumping. "And of course I expect you'll be wearing them. Both the blouse and the skirt." "No! Professor!" Flashes of me walking through the school halls in my blouse and circle skirt go through my head, the girls and everyone laughing and pointing at me. "I can't! I just can't!" "Why not? Clothes are made to be worn! In fact, let's make it part of your homework. Good fitting clothes which look good on you -- tailoring and adjustments -- that is just as critical as sewing them in the first place, and I think you are up to the challenge. So, not another word of protest, Miss Marshall, I shall expect to see you wearing your new skirt and blouse Monday afternoon at class." With that, Professor Chambers bids me farewell. * * * I stare at her as she walks down the street, back to the University. How did I get myself into this fix? Now I have to wear a skirt and a blouse to school on Monday? Of course all of the other girls will be in class and they'll all see me as a woman, for sure. There's no way I'll get them to call me 'Marshall' after that. I imagine trying to sneak home just before Apparel Care to change. Or maybe I can take the clothes in a bag and swap clothes in the ladies room? But then they'll get all wrinkled. That's no good. Maybe I could pretend to be sick? Should I drop the class? But Morgen wouldn't like that. She said I had to show her the report card. And besides -- it's become my favorite class. Gosh darn it, what am I going to do? I arrive at the beauty salon. The door rings as I open it. It's mid afternoon and it's quiet in town, so there's only two beauticians in the shop, both currently busy with customers. "Have a seat and I'll be right with you, Hon," says the taller one. I sit down on the wooden chair and idly flip through an old back issue of Vogue. Sitting in the chair has re-acquainted me with the girdle, which feels deliciously tight around my bottom. I carefully arrange my skirts to make sure my stocking tops are not showing and then squirm a bit. The sensation of the panties, the girdle and my plaid wool skirt all on the wood salon chair is almost too much. That's three layers of feminine fabrics I am sitting upon. "I can take you now," the beautician says as she finishes ringing out her current customer. She is in her mid thirties, smart looking and with an easy, friendly smile. "Goodness, when was the last time you got your hair done, sweetie?" "Uh... I don't remember?" I stammer. "Maybe two years ago?" "Two years! Oh, honey! Well, I can see it's high time we got your hair some tender lovin' care. Now I can see that you need a shampoo, so if you'll follow me--" "Before we begin... uh..." I hesitated. "Are you Janice?" "I sure am! I own this place." "Okay. I... I have this." I reached into my purse and pulled out the slip with the ten free beauty appointments, of which five are unused. "Oh!" Janice cries out, and sinks into the nearest salon chair, staring at the coupon and covering her mouth in shock. "Oh my god," she says finally. "Where did you get this?" Janice looks up at me, her eyes wet. "Are you Kelly?" She knows me? My heart leaps into my throat. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I'll leave!" Panicking, I turn to go. "Don't you dare!" Janice says, fiercely grabbing my arm to prevent me from going. "Where did you get this?" "I... I'm a roomer with Mr. Feyla and his daughter Morgen? I'm renting a room. And I saw this coupon on Mrs. Feyla's desk? And I thought it would be okay... I'm so sorry! It was stupid of me. I'll go and take it back--" "Don't you dare," Janice growls, grasping my arm in a grip so tight I'm sure it's going to leave a bruise. She stops like that for the longest time, staring at the slip of paper and gulping, tears slowly dripping down her cheeks. "Miriam Feyla was my best friend," Janice says finally. "She came in here one day and it was like we had been sisters our whole lives, you dig? And just before she died..." Janice looks up at me, staring, her grip on my arm even tighter. "She said..." Janice starts, then stops. I don't know what to say, so I just stand there, awkwardly, feeling pins and needles in my fingers as the blood drains away. Janice looks at me, breathing hard. Gradually her grip relaxes and she lets go of my arm and warmly grasps my hand instead. "Let's get you a shampoo," Janice says finally, leading me to the back of the shop and to a row of green porcelain sinks. "Are you sure?" "Oh, honey, I've never been so sure of anything in my life." * * * I close my eyes and enjoy the feeling of being pampered. Janice's soapy fingers, deep in my hair, massage my scalp. "So how did Mrs. Feyla help you with Ed?" I ask, referring to the note on the coupon. "Now *that's* a story!" Janice laughs. "This was, oh, let me think... eight years ago? Ed had the seven year itch, ya know? We were fighting all the time. Hell, we'd fight about how to spend a dime. And in the sack... there was nothin' goin' on. you know what I mean? It was horrible and I was sure we was headed to splitsville. But I still loved the man, and I could tell that he loved me too, somewhere in there. What a nightmare! Anyway, long story short, Miriam fixed it." "Miriam? You mean, Mrs. Feyla? She fixed it?" I ask, curious. "How?" "She made me a magic potion." Janice starts rinsing out my hair. "Wha-- No... no way!" "Cross my heart and hope to die! As sure as I'm standin' here, she gave me two vials of liquid. Ed drank the blue one and I drank the pink one." "And did it work?" "And how! I'd never been so on for a man in my life! It was like were teenagers all over again and we couldn't get enough of each other! We did it all night, then all the next morning, and there abouts three times *a day* for for like the next six *months*. Thank god for the pill! Hallelujah for the pill! Or I'd have like, two dozen children by now. And we did it, like *everywhere*. In the car, in the kitchen, while watching TV. He's come and done me in the office over there oh, dozens and dozens of times. And now, eight years later, well, things have cooled down a bit. But we're still doin' it sump'n like 10 times a week." "10 times a week!" I gasp. I wonder how any couple could have that much sex. "Sure thing. It would be more except we'd never get anything done. Sit up!" Janice places a towel around my head and carefully blots way the excess water. Then she has me get up and she walks me over to a salon chair. "Yup!" she says. "I was so happy I gave Miriam twenty free sessions, but she refused to take more than ten. She was such a lady that way." "But it's ridiculous." "What's ridiculous?" "Magic potions. Making you all... " "Horny like dogs in heat?" "Yes," I blush. "There's no way some chemical mixture could do that. I mean, sure, LSD, but that lasts only a few hours. To have it last for years? It's not possible." "Well, by that reasoning, it must be magic." "But there's no such thing as magic!" "Oh Honey, there is more in this world than can be explained by chemicals and molecules and E equals MC squared. The sooner you accept that, the happier you will be." Janice takes a long pink cape, and drapes it over me, fastening it snugly around my neck. "Especially considering that you're rooming with the Feylas." The cape's so long that it goes below my knees and over the sides of the chair halfway to the floor, including in back. "But magic potions? That's nothin'," Janice continues. "You wanna hear something that will completely freak you out?" She runs her fingers through my hair a couple of times. "Miriam gave me instructions on how to do your hair before she died." If the cape hadn't held me back, I would have bolted for the door. "Please tell me you're joking!" I cry, panicked. "Cross my heart! Miriam told me: 'Janice, at some point in the future, you will get a new customer and she will have terrible hair and will give you my coupon for a free beauty treatment.'" "I don't believe you." "And you know what else she said? She said that your name would be Kelly. Is that your name?" I feel a lump in my throat and I try to get out of the chair, but again the long cape, draped over the back of the chair, holds me back, choking me in the process. Janice places her hands on my shoulders, massaging them but also holding me in place, helping me calm down. "You're just making that up," I protest. "Is this some sort of initiation or hazing ritual for new customers?" "I am not making this up! Miriam was my best and closest friend since I moved to New Jersey and I swear, that's exactly what she said. Now is your name Kelly?" "Y-yes," I stammer. "That's my name. But how could she know that? She died over a year ago. When I was still in high school." Janice shakes her head. "I don't know, honey. Unless it's magic. Now, after she told me your name, she gave me precise instructions on how to do your hair." "She told you how to do my hair?" I repeat, completely not comprehending. A dead woman, who died before she even knew that I existed, gave instructions on how my hair was supposed to be done, over a year into the future. A dead woman is choosing my hair style. And I'm supposed to just sit here and let it happen? Let some ghost from the past determine how I look? But why? For what purpose? "That's right," Janice confirms. Her voice implies that it's all settled and that somehow she thinks I'm going to just accept it. "Now I promised her that I would give you exactly the style she requested for you. So you just sit back and let Janice take care of you, okay? Betty?" She calls out to the other stylist. "Can you come help me? And bring the rods. The pink ones." The two stylists get to work on my hair, wrapping it around plastic pink tubes with small paper sheets and then pinning it into place. Say something! I tell myself, freaking out. I need to stop this right now! Before it goes any further! They continue with their work. This is a lot more involved than I thought it would be. I thought I would get a shampoo, a cut and maybe a blow dry, but this is quickly turning into an industrial operation. They work quickly from top to bottom, wrapping my hair around each curler rod and then pinning it into place. Get up! Say something! Speak up and stop this! Be a man! I breathe heavily, trying to work up the nerve. I just sit there meekly, but inside I am desperately trying to gather the willpower to stop it. They continue their work. The top half of my head is now covered in big pink tubes, each held in place with an elastic band. They add plastic sticks between the bands and my head starts to look like some modern architecture construction by Buckminster Fuller. Oh my god. This is too much. Just stand up and stop this! Just tell them "no thanks, can't I have something simpler?" But I don't. With every roller placed, it becomes harder and harder and I need more and more nerve to tell them to stop, and I never seem to be able to catch up. As they finish up my hair, wrapping the last parts at the back, I feel like I'm running after a train which has pulled out of the station and is gradually accelerating away from me, getting further and further away, until finally I give up. I've missed my chance. I look up at Janice with pleading eyes, but she's busy preparing something in a bottle and seems not to notice. Meanwhile, Betty dabs on a lotion to the skin right at my scalp line all around my head. Once that's done, she adds soft cotton ropes which stick to my head and fames my face at my hair line. "Wha... what's that for?" I ask, nervously. "To protect you," she says. "From what?" But Betty is called over by Janice before she can answer and the two women work behind me on something. What are they doing?? I try to turn around to see, but the cape and the awkward angle prevent me from seeing anything. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. Okay, I tell myself, you can still do this. There is still a chance and this is it. Kelly... I mean *Marshall!!* Just stand up and object and tell them, please, I'm so sorry for all this hard work you've done, but I just can't-- But then I feel something cool on my head. "What are you doing?" I ask, opening my eyes. "Applying the waving lotion," Janice says, matter of fact. Both she and Betty are using plastic bottles to squirt my hair with some clear liquid which soaks in. Just then, I can smell it. Cripes, it stinks! What the heck are they doing?? "Wha-- what's waving lotion?" I ask, a nervous quiver in my voice. "Oh, it relaxes your hair." "What does that mean?" They finish up applying the waving lotion and then cover my hair with a plastic cap. Taking my hand, Betty walks me over to the row of hair dryers which line the side of the beauty salon. Now! I think to myself. Do it! Just stop! This is it! Just tell them you need to stop whatever it is they're doing! Betty sits me down in the plastic chair and leans me back slightly. Just as I'm about to object, she lowers a massive rounded dryer over my head. "What's this for?" I ask, freaking out. "Oh, it activates the waving lotion," Janice says, arranging my cape where it was bunched up one one side. "This type of permanent only works with heat." Did she say... Permanent?? I AM GETTING A PERMANENT??? But before I can do anything, Betty switches on the hair dryer and it whirs to life. I feel hot air cascading down my head and shoulders. She hands me a magazine to read. It is Good Housekeeping. I struggle for a few seconds. Get up! I tell myself. Stand up! Push away the hair dryer and demand that they undo everything! Be a man! Stand up for your rights! Just do something! Anything.... But then a few seconds go by. And then a few more. The hair dryer continues to whir, my head is nice and hot now, setting the permanent (I guess). Giving me a permanent wave. A permanent curl to my hair. Making my hair nice and curly and feminine and pretty... Get up... I say to myself weakly. Be a man... I feel a sagging within me. The moment has passed. I just can't. I am not a man after all... The train has disappeared around the bend and I am left behind. I resign myself to having a permanent. With a sigh, I start to flip through Good Housekeeping. * * * After thirty minutes under the hairdryer, they rinse out the awful wave lotion, apply a neutralizer, rinse that out as well, and then (finally!) remove the rollers. "*More* rollers?" I ask, as Janice and Betty are wrapping my hair in rollers a second time. This time, the roller are soft and just cover the bottom the bottom half of my head. "This time for style," says Janice. "Trust me, you'll love it. Okay, all done! Now under the dryer again." This time I'm under the dryer for an hour! I continue reading the article in Good Housekeeping ("Hearty Meals He's Sure To Love!") but then Janice takes it away from me and pulls my left hand onto a small rolling table that she's pulled up. Oh god, she's going to do my nails. I look on, helpless, as she starts to work on my nails, cleaning them up, pushing back the cuticles. Betty takes my right hand. I sit there, looking on, under the dryer works on my hair and the two women methodically work on my nails. After the prep, they reach for nail polish. At first, I tense up, but then I see it's clear! It's just clear nail polish! I sigh in relief and let them continue. But just then, I have the strangest experience. It as if blinders are removed and just like that I can see and feel *everything*. I am sitting under a hairdryer in a beauty salon, wearing a big, bright pink cape. Under the cape, I'm wearing a white blouse with lace trim on the bodice and around the collar (my cardigan is hung on a hook by Janice's station). Under that I am wearing a Playtex "Cross-Your-Hear" bra from Mrs. Feyla's dresser drawers. I can feel it holding the weight of my breasts just perfectly, the straps on my shoulders and the strap around my chest like a constant hug of ladies lingerie. Under my short skirt, I am wearing a tight panty girdle which is holding everything in, giving me smooth lines. The girdle has pushed my 'walnuts' someplace inside of me, making it even more smooth down there. This is not as uncomfortable as I might have thought it would be. I can barely feel that they're there. The garters of the panty girdle are attached to silk stockings and I have brown pumps with clunky two inch heels. The garters pull at the silk fabric of the stockings, which stretch deliciously over my shaved legs. The short plaid skirt has hiked up, so my legs are practically bare from the waist down. I feel my panties and the girdle and a bit of bare skin is actually sitting directly on the vinyl salon chair. If it weren't for the cape, probably everyone would be able to see my panties. Hot air is cascading over my head and down my neck, doing god-knows-what to my hair, no doubt making it look beautiful and pretty. My head is hot. I feel the curlers pressing against my neck and scalp. I feel like a woman. And Janice and Better are both working on my nails. I feel them taking each finger and working on the nails, with something that feels cool as it evaporates. WHAT?? I almost jerk my hand away. They are putting pink nail polish on my fingers!! Oh god, oh god. Pink nail polish? Janice finishes one hand and then gently blows on the polish. She looks up and gives me an encouraging smile. Did Mrs. Feyla specify that my nails were to be done too? Did she pick out the color? My heart sinks. Of course I can use nail polish remover to get it all off, I even think I saw some in Mrs. Feyla's dressing table. But the whole situation has just spun so far out of control. It's like I can almost feel Mrs. Feyla, operating from beyond the grave, manipulating my life to her plans. But what plans? What is the purpose? And why me? * * * After two coats and a glossy top coat, my nails are complete and so is my hair. The hair dryer is turned off and I am led back to the salon chair where I sit facing away from the mirror because Janice doesn't want me to see the final look until she's all finished. Janice removes the plastic cap and she and Betty remove the rollers, one by one, dropping them into a nearby bucket. All the while, Janice is giving me instructions on how to take care of my permanent. I can't wash my hair for almost a week (!), I'm not allowed to touch it, I have to wear it up under a special silk cap when I sleep, and so on. She makes me repeat all of the instructions several times until she's confident that I'll remember them. Once the styling rollers are out, Janice carefully combs out the hair and styles it, working slowly and gently, snipping a hair here and there. Once my hair is done to her satisfaction, she pulls up another tray to start working on my makeup. "Close you're eyes and hold still," she instructs. Holding my head in one hand she tilts it back. In this position I feel weak and at her mercy. Vulnerable. Pliable. I feel something in my eyebrows and then-- "Ow! Hey!" "Hold still," she instructs, firmly. "Just neatening up these bushy brows a bit." I feel more stinging points on my eyebrows. So maybe a little thinning of my brows won't be so bad, I think. After all, they *are* rather bushy. But then she plucks some more. And then some more. And more! How much is she going to pluck away? I think to myself, frustrated and anxious. My god, this is going on forever! With every pluck, I think, she *must* be done. But then the plucking continues. This is too much! Finally, I can't take it anymore. I steal myself to complain. Just a couple more plucks and then I'm going to-- "There! All done. *So* much better." Janice says, releasing my head. Next, she takes some time to instruct me in proper makeup application. She covers all the same steps as Morgen did, but adds a few, like eyeliner, an extra layer of eye shadow and lip liner. I ask questions. She answers them carefully. "Wonderful!" Janice says, taking off my cape with a flourish and then fluffing up my hair one last time. "You're all done! It's everything that Mrs. Feyla left instructions for." "She... she left instructions for all this? The makeup? The eyebrows? The nails?" "Yup! And it looks like she knew what she was doing. Check it out!" Janice rotates my chair to face the mirror. And I see the new me, staring out of the mirror, her eyes big with a shocked expression on her pretty face. I had no idea a permanent could look so good! Soft, gentle waves of curls cascade down the sides of my face and onto my shoulders. I look like a girl! Oh my god, I look just exactly like a beautiful girl. Like a Kelly. I look like Kelly. ** You are Kelly ** says a voice in my head. And oh, those thin arched eyebrows! Something about them makes my stomach twist up. They make my face look so open and interested and approachable and lovely. I think about having to walk around campus with those feminine eyebrows and my heart sinks, feeling trapped. The makeup and the hair have done it. The last vestiges of manliness have been erased from my face. I look and look, and although it's clear that I'm still the same person, I am now a girlish, all-lady version of that person. The hair frames my face and softens it, making me look fresh-faced and all-American. "Like it?" Janice asks, noticing my expression. "You are... amazing." I say softly, falling in love with my new look. "This is just... beautiful." END Chapter 5 Thanks to Robyn Hoode for her editorial help. Remaining errors are entirely the fault of the author.