Maybe It's Magic - Chapter 6 free porn video

Maybe It's Magic by RH Music Chapter 6: Thanksgiving "Now promise that you'll take good care of your new perm." "I promise. How long will it last?" "Six months to a year." "Six months to a YEAR??" I gasp. "That's why they call it a permanent, honey. It doesn't go away. It has to grow out." "So, the only way to get rid of it..." "Would be to cut it off. That's right." "Oh." The thought of cutting off such beautiful hair makes me physically sick. "Exactly. So promise me again you'll take good care of it?" "I promise." I feel glum. I'm stuck with this hair? Isn't there anything else I can do? I get a hug from Betty who says goodbye. "That's my girl," Janice says giving me a hug, as well. "Now I can say that Miriam's dying request has been fulfilled." * * * What am I going to do about my hair?? I fret as I walk home. The sun has gone down and the sky is darkening. It's getting colder and I'll be glad to get home. I walk more quickly. I hope the neighbor is home. I made all of those promises to Janice, but there's no way I can wear this hair on campus. Now what do I do? "Professor Manichev!" Turning a corner, I run smack into my professor. He reaches out and grasps me to prevent me from falling backwards. "I'm so sorry!" "Marshall?" "Who is this, dear?" Just then I notice a stately woman standing to the side. It must be his wife. She has a thick Eastern European accent. "This is..." he pauses, looking at me, "this is my physics student, Marshall." "The undergraduate talking all of those advanced physics lectures?" she asks, grasping my hand in a vigorous shake. "You didn't tell me that your prodigy student was a she! We need more women physicists," she says, seriously. "I'm so glad to meet you. Darling, why didn't you tell me Marshall was a woman?" "Well.. uh... because..." he sputters. Professor Manichev looks at me, pleadingly. "Because..." I say, looking back and forth between them. What am I going to say? The only thing I can think of is to repeat the lie that Morgen told to her father. "I... uh... had to pretend to be a man... um... to be taken seriously, uh, you see... as a physicist." "Oh, Marshall, I'm so sorry you feel that way!" Professor Manichev blurts out. "But there are so many amazing women physicists! Haven't you hear of Jocelyn Burrell? She discovered pulsars! And I hear Vera Rubin is making some amazing discoveries at the Carnegie Institute. And, you know, Chen-Shiung Wu of the Manhattan project and Maria Goeppert-Mayer, she won the Nobel for physics. And Marie Curie, of course..." "Frederick!" Mrs. Manichev steps over and holds me protectively in her arms. "I can perfectly understand why this poor girl would pretend to be a man. Just look at you! Of course she knows that women have made contributions to physics. She just wants to be treated like every other student, and not like some special object attracting all of this unwanted attention. Isn't that right, dear?" "Yes," I say, gratefully. "Yes, that's it, exactly." "And I bet you changed your name as well. After all, Marshall is a man's name. What's your real name, dear?" Oh god. I feel trapped. I've already told her that I'm a woman. Now she expects a woman's name. "It's Kelly?" "What a beautiful name! Isn't that a beautiful name, Frederick?" "Yes, it is," he agrees. "Well, Kelly dear, I am so glad to see that you're embracing your feminine side," Mrs. Manichev says, indicating my hair and my skirts. "I imagine that you'll be a woman on campus from now on? That's good. It's best to be yourself. Don't you agree, Frederick? You'll see that she's taken care of and given the respect as a physicist that she deserves?" "Yes, absolutely!" "Well, then, that's all settled!" said Mrs. Manichev. "Now you won't have to pretend to be a man anymore. You must be so relieved!" "I..." How do things like this slip away so quickly? Now I'm a girl on campus? Will Professor Manichev tell all of my other teachers about how I pretended to be a man? Of course he will. News like this is too good not to share. It will be all over the university by Monday noon. "I am relieved," I said, trying to smile but feeling a lump inside. "Wonderful. See you tomorrow at Thanksgiving dinner. Six sharp!" * * * After a long and restless night (what am I going to do about my hair? And now Professor Manichev expects me to be a girl on campus? And Professor Chambers too?) I wake the next morning feeling better. Today is Thanksgiving day, and I decide to put my worries aside. For now, I'll dress as Kelly and then I'll figure the rest out later.. I slip out of bed and hum with pleasure as the nightgown drapes deliciously down my body. I was a little unsure about wearing nightgowns. Would they bind my legs? Would they get all bunched up? Would I miss having pajamas? But now I can't imagine sleeping in anything else. They're just so sumptuous and self indulgent - all that glorious fabric slipping over my body. Walking around the house with a nightgown and a robe in the morning, the long skirts flowing around and between my legs. Just wonderful. I strip and shower and then put on some panties and the bra from Mrs. Feyla's dresser drawer. But now what? I flip through the dresses in my closet. I want something new. I feel a tingle inside. Something a wife or mother might wear while working around the home and in the kitchen. Something simple but nice. Maybe something I saw in Mrs. Feyla's closet yesterday afternoon...? I start walking slowly and then faster and faster until I'm practically trotting into the master bedroom. But wait. I pause and look at Mrs. Feyla's dresser drawers. Mmmm.... Maybe a new bra and a girdle too? Why not? And so I sift through the drawers until I find a gorgeous longline bustier bra called "Goddess" ("the bra that gives you the shape of a goddess") by a company called "Cleopatra". It's white, constructed with boning and sturdy fabric, with a romantic little satin rose stitched right between the cups. It fits perfectly and covers my torso all the way to my belly button, giving such delicious support to my bosom. I sigh with happiness. My breasts seem even bigger in this bra. Are they bigger? How much bigger are they going to get? Next I choose an open bottom girdle, basically just a tube of tight, stretchy fabric. Stepping into it, I struggle to put it on, but finally it slips over my plump and round bottom and finds it's place. Oh, it smoothes everything out so nicely! I take a few experimental steps, noticing how the small skirt restricts my movement as I walk. Oh, how I love wearing girdles! Fetching a pair of stockings (I'm going to have to hand wash all of these before Morgen and Mr. Feyla get back I realize) I sit down on the dressing table stool to put them on. As I slip them up my legs and fasten them to the garter tabs (such a feminine procedure), I wonder if Mrs. Feyla wore girdles all the time. ** I didn't, but you will ** I hold my legs out, pointing my toes in the stockings, admiring how they look. My legs really do look amazing. Okay, now for the house dress. I practically dance over to the closet in anticipation. ** welcome to my sanctuary ** Walking in longline bra, panties, open girdle and stockings, I enter the closet and then walk down the racks of clothes, going more slowly this time, learning the organization. Here are fancy gowns, skirts, blouses, jackets, pants suits, cocktail dresses, and sun dresses. Almost one whole wall are casual dresses. As I flip through them, I want to find something that is simple and good for working around the house. A house dress. Something about that word as it floats through my head makes me feel pleasure. Yes, a simple but beautiful house dress that I can wear while doing house work. Not a school girl skirt and blouse like I've been wearing, but something more appropriate for... I pause... something more appropriate for a wife. Finally I find the perfect one. It's a "Liza by Lilly Pulitzer" and is made of soft pink cotton with a pink flower pattern. It has a shirt collar, ties at the waist and is about knee length. I slip it over my head and thread my arms through the sleeves as I pull it down. It settles perfectly over my body, the skirt reaches down to my knees. I tie the belt at my waist and go back into the master bedroom to check myself out in the mirror. Perfect! I run my hands over the fabric smoothing it out. On top of the girdle, the dress over my body looks so sexy and feminine, from my ample bosom to my smooth and round bottom. I twirl and it flares slightly, the skirts brushing up against my stocking legs. Shoes! I lightly trot back to the closet to look for an appropriate pair of shoes. Oh my gosh, there are so many! Now, if I were a true housewife, I would probably be wearing a simple pair of leather flats, and I see several of those. But for some reason, I want to wear heels. After all, if I'm going to be wearing heels for the Thanksgiving party tonight, shouldn't I get used to wearing them? And wouldn't doing housework in heels be just the best way to do that? I find a pair which are just right. The heel is just two inches, it doesn't look too bad, and they're a dusty rose color which matches my pink house dress. I quickly carry them back to the mirror and slip them on my stocking feet. Oh my... I have never worn pumps with stiletto heels before, and never ones made of such soft leather. Expensive stockings, on a feminine foot, slipping into a sumptuous leather pump. Such luxury! I get goosebumps. The feeling of these heels is so different! Not only is the feeling of my feet clad in such sheer fabric so different inside the shoe, but just standing in them stretches my calves and forces me to stand on the balls of my feet, as if perched there. I put more weight on the heel, feeling a little unsteady on the carpet of the master bedroom, and I look in the mirror. My legs look amazing! I get major tingles. But I'm still not done. I take careful, unsteady steps to the dressing table where I gratefully sit down on the stool. I start to fix my face, using the instructions from Janice yesterday. Soon I have what I believe is a pretty and not overdone look, Sensible. Like what a homemaker might wear. There, all done. I look around. ** pearls ** I am drawn to the dresser drawer where I find a leather box lined with plush velvet which contains a string of Mikimoto pearls. Oh gosh, they are so beautiful! The feeling of the weight of the smooth iridescent moons running through my fingers feels so heavy and expensive. I put them on and look in the mirror. Amazing. Should wear them tonight? Would a student going to a party at her physics professor wear pearls? Why not? Finally, I spy a watch in the same drawer. It's a simple ladies watch with a thin light brown band. It's a gold color and has a delicate filigree pattern on the face. Why not? After all, I'm going to put this all back on Sunday before Morgen and Mr. Feyla get home, so there's no harm in accessorizing for now. I wind the watch and set the time and then slip it around my wrist, buckling up the leather strap so it's nice and snug around my wrist. I walk back to the mirror. Oh my gosh... I look like a blushing newly-wed wife, eager to please her husband. I am standing in my two inch heels, feeling the stockings on my legs as I lightly swish my dress back and forth. The girdle is smooth, slippery under the dress and comforting around my bottom and the garter tabs pull gently at my stockings. The longline bra with the enormous number of hooks in back is snug around my abdomen, providing ample support for my breasts which have settled nicely in the soft cups of the bra. The dress is soft and practical. Just perfect for doing work around the house. My hair is perfect, framing my face, soft curls stroking my cheeks, neck and shoulders. My makeup is not bad, and I feel proud that I look so feminine and pretty. The red lipstick and red nails look quite grown up. Who is this person? I look at myself in the mirror, astonished. What have I done? But it all feels so perfect, so comfortable. So... right. "Okay Kelly," I counsel myself. "Enough preening. You look wonderful. Now let's get some work done!" * * * As I work, weird things start to worry me. First, I feel too much at ease. I'm wearing a girdle and high heels! Shouldn't this be more uncomfortable? As I click-click through the kitchen, I feel like I could do this forever. So much like I belong and I can't imagine wearing anything else. But wasn't I a man just a week ago? I think the trip to the beauty salon must be going to my head. I keep checking myself out in the mirror. I go and vacuum the master bedroom, even though it doesn't really need it, just so I can watch myself in the full-length mirror doing household chores. It just makes me feel all warm and squirmy inside. I decide to bake some brownies as my contribution to Thanksgiving dinner. I follow the Betty Crocker cookbook with the adjustments marked by Mrs. Feyla (a bit more cocoa, a bit more butter, add some finely chopped walnuts). I bake two pans, one for dinner tonight and a second one for family. * * * After another shower, I dress for dinner. Sifting through the dresses in Mrs. Feyla's closet, I find a cute plaid Laura Ashley with a white Peter Pan collar which is just perfect. I pair it with a panty girdle (no garter tabs this time), a pair of nude pantyhose and some black heels. I carefully fix my hair and add the pearls. I look like a holiday party girl ready to enjoy her evening. This time I am careful to go fetch my wallet AND my keys to put into the purse (I select a small black clutch which goes perfectly with my outfit), and as I do, I accidentally stumble over my sneakers which I left by the side of my bed. Ugh. Sneakers. Converse. They look so ratty. Did I really wear these just yesterday? But then, as I go to throw them in the closet, something seems weird. They... seem too big. You don't suppose.... I slip off one of the pumps and then slip my foot into the sneaker. Oh god.... the shoe no longer fits. I stare, disbelieving, at my small, delicate foot inside this massive sneaker. I push my foot towards the front of the shoe and there's a good inch of room in the heel. But that's impossible! Didn't I just wear them just yesterday? If I did that today, I would step right out of them! What the heck is going on?? I slip off the other pump and I run over in stocking feet to the door frame where I stand up straight and mark my height with a pencil. Fetching a measuring tape from the sewing room, I measure. I've shrunk by over two inches. Oh god, what is happening to me?? * * * I walk to the Manichev's place, the heels click-clicking on the cement sidewalk, my short skirt swinging around my legs with a fuzzy overcoat to keep me warm. It takes every ounce of willpower to not to freak out. I have shrunk. My feet are smaller. How is that possible? Or have the shoes gotten bigger? They did look enormous. And if my feet have shrunk, then how could that happen? And maybe I measured myself wrong before? Didn't I used to be, practically, 5-7? And now I'm just under 5-4! I mean, my feet do look dainty. In the mirror and when trying on Mrs. Feyla's shoes, they look and feel smaller than I remember. And Mrs. Feyla's shoes all fit *perfectly*. What are the chances of that? A man? Whose feet perfectly fit an older woman's shoes? But it's my loss of height which really sends me to the freak out zone. I'm shorter. I'M SHORTER!! ** more of a woman's height ** The thought goes through my head. As I walk down the sidewalk I even feel smaller. Like a smaller woman in a big wild world. I pull the jacket around me more closely. Something is very wrong.... I should go to the doctor. But how could he do anything for me? It's all so impossible. Maybe I forgot my actual measurements? Maybe I was always this short, but somehow got it wrong all this time? But then, what about the shoes? That wouldn't explain the shoes... I ring the bell and Mr. Manichev greets me with a warm hug and ushers me into the house. After a quick visit with his wife ("Oh Kelly," she says, "You didn't need to bring anything! But these look so yummy, thank you!") I am escorted to the living room. "Professor Cambridge?" I gasp. It's my Intro-Physics teacher! "Why yes, and you are...?" I look around, frantically, trying to think of what to say. Oh god, there's one of the graduate students I know from the physics graduate reading seminar. And who is that? Shit. It's a student from my intro physics class. Obviously invited here by Professor Cambridge. Darn it! "I'm..." I stammer, starting to shake. "I'm..." "This is Kelly," Professor Manichev says, introducing us. "Kelly Marshall." "Kelly Marshall?" Professor Cambridge is looking at me through narrow eyes. He's partly balding and a bit greasy, like he forgot to wash his hair yesterday. He's always had an officious attitude that gets on my nerves in class. "But I have a Marshall Kelly in my class--" He stops short. Please no... I pray... please no... no no no... "Marshall, is that you??" He asks, much too loudly. "Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag now," Professor Manichev laughs. I glare at him, but he doesn't seem sorry at all. "Yes, this is Marshall, although he's really a she and her name is really Kelly." "But... but..." Professor Cambridge stammers. "You're my best student and now you're a ... a... a woman?" "No no," Professor Manichev explains. "Kelly was always a woman. She just pretended to be a man so that we wouldn't treat her any differently than our male students. Isn't that right, Kelly?" "Yes," I say, meekly The two other students look at me, eyes round as saucers. It may be 1973, but even in these modern times women posing as men is pretty shocking stuff. Drat, I realize. This is going to be all over campus by Monday. I might as well have posted it on the public bulletin. Actually this is much worse. Nobody reads the public bulletins. "Ah, well, that makes all the difference, now doesn't it?" Professor Cambridge says. Something about the way he says it creeps me out. * * * Dinner is, of course, delicious. The two students (one male, one female) pepper me with endless questions about posing as a man if I were a woman. Why did I do it? (To be treated just like every other student) Was it hard? (No, pretending to be a man came naturally to me) How did I hide my breasts? (I wrapped them) And so on. Inwardly I feel like I'm slipping further and further down a rabbit hole from which I will never escape. The girl has already asked if I can tutor her in physics, and the boy has already assured me that there will be 'no problem' should I come back to the graduate reading seminar because he will happily 'explain things' to everyone.' Great. Just great. To escape it all I volunteer to help with the dishes while Mrs. Manichev serves coffee and after-dinner drinks. I'm up to my elbows in soap suds when Professor Cambridge enters. "You clean up real nice," he says, with a slurred voice. He's holding a glass of scotch and soda. "I never would have known you were a girl--" he pauses to belch "-- but now that I see you ... like this... see you like this... now that I see you like this, well..." "Uh... thank you?" It's hard for me to know what to say. I need to leave. I rinse my hands and dry them with the kitchen towel and try to head back to the dining room join the others. But Professor Cambridge blocks me, trapping me in the corner between two countertops. "You know, I'd be happy to give you some private tutoring," he says, running a finger over the top of my hand. Ugh. His touch makes my skin crawl. "Why would I need private t-t-t-tutoring?" I am freaking out now. I try to slip past him, but he blocks me again, stepping closer, maneuvering me deeper into the corner. "Oh, you know," he says, pressing his body into me. Oh god. I can feel his hard penis pressing against my abdomen. "N-no. I don't know," I stammer. "You might need some extra help to ensure that you get a good grade," he explains, as if talking to a child. "But I thought you said I was your best student." "Even the best students need help now and then to make sure they get good grades." I jerk in surprise as Professor Cambridge places a hand on my hip and squeezes. Finally I understand exactly what he's saying. "Please..." I struggle to extricate myself but fail. Damn it! What should I do? "Aww, don't be that way, Kelly," he says. "You're so pretty." Professor Cambridge strokes my face with a finger. "Stop," I turn my head away, trying to evade his touch. I struggle some more, but my high heels makes it difficult to get leverage. "I... I have a boyfriend," I say, desperate. "Oh, that's nice," he says. He leans in harder, pushing me hard into the countertops and tries to kiss me, but I dodge it. I can smell the scotch on his breath. "And who is this mythical boyfriend of yours?" "It's..." I struggle to think. I can't say Morgen, obviously. But I have to say someone! I frantically reach out for the only name I can think of. "It's Richard Feyla," I say. "Richard Feyla? The board member?" "He's on the board of the university?" I ask, shocked. "Yes, he his," Professor Cambridge smirks. "I imagine that as his 'girlfriend' you might know that. So you like older men? How wonderful. Now I think I must *insist* that you come for some 'private tutoring' to insure you get the best grades. How about tonight? I'll escort you to my place." Professor Cambridge reaches around and grabs my bottom, pulling my hips into his hard penis which he humps against me. He grasps my right breast in his pudgy hand, squeezing and massaging it. "Stop!" I whisper tersely, begging now, feeling embarrassed and violated but still not wanting to cause a scene. I struggle harder, trying to push him aside. I panic as his creepy hands continue to massage my bottom and my breast and he leans in for a kiss. "Please!! Stop!!" I turn my face away and lean back as far as I can, desperate to avoid kissing this monster. "Professor CAMBRIDGE!!" We both look over and it's Mrs. Manichev! She grasps Professor Cambridge by his shirt collar and pulls him off me. As she does, he loses his footing and tumbles to the floor. I burst into tears, shaking in the corner covering myself with my arms, ashamed and humiliated. "Get out!" Mrs. Manichev says, giving Professor Cambridge a kick in the side. "Get out of my house!" She kicks him again. Professor Cambridge scrambles to his feet. "Think about what I said," he says to me. "I'll see you in class." "Out!!" Mrs. Manichev points to the door and gives him a shove. I sink to the floor, sobbing hysterically. "Thank you," I blubber, as Mrs. Manichev tries to comfort me. "Thank you for stopping him." "He's a monster," she says. "I didn't want to invite him, but my husband insisted. Well, that's the last time! What happened?" "I-- I-- I was d-d-doing the dishes. And then he-- he-- he trapped me in the corner and I couldn't escape." I could feel a wave of creepy horror come over me as I recalled what happened. "I'm so ashamed. Why would he do that?" "Well, it's over now. And dear, I think you have learned a valuable lesson, now haven't you?" "A lesson?" I ask, feeling dumb. Is she lecturing me? "Yes. You are a beautiful girl, and so you can expect men will want to approach you like this. You need to be more careful to avoid these sorts of situations in the future." "I... I need to..." The horror of what she's telling me starts to sink in. "Yes, I know it's not fair, but then, life is not fair. Beautiful girls like you will naturally receive lots of unwanted attention from men. I can tell you've led a rather sheltered life, but it's the truth. You'll need to learn how to avoid dangerous situations with men and how to gracefully put them off. I know it's terrible, but it's our lot in life. Men will be men and boys will be boys. And it's your responsibility to see that nothing gets out of hand." "It's my responsibility? Mine? Not... but he... it was Professor Cambridge who was the one..." I try to explain what I'm thinking but I can't seem to figure out the right words. "But I didn't do anything!" I wail, feeling more shamed and humiliated than ever. I burst into fresh sobs. "Oh dear, I know," Mrs. Manichev pulls me into a hug. "All women understand. I know it's the 1970s and there's feminism and women's lib and everything seems so enlightened, but men are still men and most of them are chauvinist pigs and they will naturally take advantage of you and there's nothing you can do about it except to anticipate it and prevent it. You have to be careful not to appear to be too available or interested. You have avoid situations where they might have an opportunity. You have to make it clear from the start that nothing can happen. You'll learn." I try my best to understand these harsh lessons. "Thank you," I say, as I continue to cry. "Thank you, Mrs. Manichev." * * * I say my goodbyes (ignoring questions on what happened from the other guests) and leave for home. It's no longer fun and games. As I walk home through the dark evening, I look at the shadows of the bushes and trees and alleyways with new fear. Men could be hiding anywhere. Someone could appear at any second and I would be defenseless to stop him from taking advantage of me. I grasp my coat tighter and step quicker. Finally home and with the front door locked, I finally feel safe enough to breath. I hold out my hands and realize that they're shaking. Being a woman in this modern day and age still means being vulnerable. I wish I were a man. Then I wouldn't have to live with this fear all the time. "But you are a man!" I tell myself. That's it. Come Monday, I will cut off all this hair and return to being Marshall. I hug myself some more, trying to calm down. I make myself some cocoa. I feel again how this house feels like my safe place. The one place in the world where I can truly relax and be myself. Because I'm feeling pitiful, I go to the master bedroom and strip off the plaid Laura Ashley dress, the girdle, the stockings and the bra. Scrounging through Mrs. Feyla's dresser drawers, I find a soft, fuzzy nightgown. I wash up in the master bathroom with Mrs. Feyla's makeup remover and scented moisturizers. Now what? I should head back to my own bed, but the guest bedroom feels cold and unwelcoming. I look over at the master bed. Why not? I slip under the cover's in Mr. Feyla's marriage bed. The mattress and pillows are soft and comforting, and the sheets are expensive and luxurious (and freshly washed). I look into the nightstand (Mrs. Feyla's nightstand) and discover a book: "The Flame and the Flower - The bold, tempestuous romance of a kidnapped and ravished aristocratic girl!" I snuggle down to read. * * * It is late Sunday afternoon and I am sitting in the kitchen enjoying a cup of tea and finishing "The Flame and the Flower". I see so much of myself in Heather, the heroine! Her troubles with men of course remind me of my encounter with Professor Cambridge. And for some reason I am enthralled by her descriptions of historical London and Charleston as Heather finds herself first repelled and then attracted to the dashing Brandon. I am so engrossed that I don't hear the key on the lock until it's too late. "KELLY?? Your hair!" Morgen stands in the open door, keys in one hand and a suitcase in the other. "Morgen??" My hand jumps up to cover my new 'do. "What... what are you doing here? I thought you wouldn't be home until tomorrow?!" "We got bored and we were missing you and wanted to come home. What did you do to your HAIR??" If Morgen is here, then Mr. Feyla--! I get up to leave the room, but I'm too late. "Kelly! We're home!" Mr. Feyla is dressed casually but still wearing a hat. "Hey! You had your hair done! It looks amazing!" "Yes..." I say. I look over at Morgen who is staring, eyes wide at my transformation. "I-- I-- I--, uh, I went to the salon and um... got a permanent." "A PERMANENT??" Morgen gasps. "Really? A permanent?" "Yes," I say, blushing deeply. "So, I guess you've decided to stop pretending to be a boy?" Mr. Feyla asks. "I..." I look back and forth between them, feeling trapped. What am I going to say? That it was all just an experiment? That Janice at the beauty salon was following the instructions from the dead Mrs. Feyla and gave me a permanent but that it was all just a mistake and I'm going to cut it off tonight? "Is that Mom's dress?" Morgen asks. Suddenly I look down and realize that, in fact, I *am* wearing one of Mrs. Feyla's shirtwaist dresses. This one is a red and taupe gingham dress with a wide collar, buttons down the front, three-quarter length sleeves and skirts which end just above the knee. It was clearly one of Mrs. Feyla's 'house dresses' and I felt comfortable wearing it. In addition I am wearing her panty girdle, stockings, and three inch heels. "And are those Miriam's pearls?" Mr. Feyla asks. My hand jumps to my neck. Fuck! I am wearing the pearls! Why did I decide to put those on?? "And did you get you also get your nails done?" Morgan asks, pointing. "I'm so sorry!" I blurt out. My eyes start to water. "I was cleaning in the master bedroom and I saw her things and... I... I was going to put it back before you got home! I swear!" "Honey, honey! It's okay!" Morgen and Mr. Feyla rush over and pull me into hugs. "It's perfectly fine," Mr. Feyla reiterates. "I was surprised, that's all. Please, Kelly, wear anything of Miriam's you want. It looks amazing on you, and I can see how much you want to wear it. Don't you agree, Morgen?" "Absolutely!" Morgen agrees, too enthusiastically, giving me a hug and a light kiss on the cheek. "Although," she whispers into my ear, "now you're stuck." I look at her, shocked, but she just nods. "That's right," she says, more loudly. "Now that we see how cute you look, you'll have to wear dresses all the time." "I guess this means you'll be attending University as a girl now?" Mr. Feyla asks. "I--" "Of course she is," Morgen interrupts. "After all, no one would go to all that trouble to get such a beautiful permanent if she were just going to cut it off." "I--" "That makes sense," Mr. Feyla says. "And I must say, Kelly, that I'm glad you've finally decided to accept your true self. After all, we shouldn't have to pretend. There is already too much artifice in the world. You need to be true to yourself and feel free to express who you really are, deep down inside. Clearly, you are a beautiful girl--" "I--" "Woman," Morgen corrected. "Sorry, *woman*," Mr. Feyla concedes. "And so, *of course* you must attend school as a young woman. If the physics department can't deal with it, then let me know and I'll take care of it!" "Dad's on the governing board of the university," Morgen informs me of what I already know. "I--" "I guess this means you won't be needing your male clothes anymore," Morgen observes. "Here, let me help you gather them up! I can take them to the Salvation Army. After all, you'll need more room for all of your new dresses!" "I--!" * * * I watch Morgen pull out of the driveway. In the backseat are bags containing all my male clothing which she is donating to charity. I know I should stop her. I should run over and bang on the window and tell her that it's all a mistake. I'm really Marshall, not Kelly, and I'll move out of the house and stop pretending to be a woman and... and... Morgen waves to me as she heads down the street and all I can do is wave back, helpless. She turns the corner and now she's gone. Along with all of my male clothes. My heart sinks. What am I going to do?? I now only have women's clothing at home. My closets are now full of dresses and skirts and blouses from Mrs. Feyla's closet. Worse, Morgen discovered I was wearing a girdle, so she also transferred the girdles and stockings and garter belts to my drawers as well! I feel trapped. Who am I kidding? I *am* trapped. Resigned, I gather my stuff and walk to school. It's a beautiful fall day. In the cold fresh air I can still smell autumn leaves. The sun slices in from the east, warming my shoulders. My heels click-click on the sidewalk and my brand-new circle skirt floats delightfully around my legs. I can feel cold air wafting under my skirts, caressing my legs. My stocking feet in the leather pumps feel comfortable and pampered. I'm wearing Mrs. Feyla's light-brown felt coat with a dark velvet collar. I tried to give it back because it's feels so expensive, but Morgen and Mr. Feyla insist that I continue wear it. "It's yours now," Mr. Feyla smiles. "I know Miriam would have wanted you to have it." His comment about what his late wife would have wanted for me gives me a weird twisty feeling inside, but I accept the coat and marvel at its satin lining which slips over my arms with a smooth whisper. As I ascend the stairs to the Liberal Arts building (which also houses Family Studies), I feel the garters pulling gently on my stockings and the panty girdle compressing my stomach and legs. I feel svelte and sexy. In Family Apparel, everyone oohs and ahhs over my new hair style. "It's so you!" One of the students say. "You look beautiful!" Stacy says. "Where did you get it?" And so I tell them, and then they ask what I got done and I tell them that too and soon we are chatting and talking about hair styles and beauty salons and makeup and nails. Finally Professor Chambers enters and we greet her and start the class. But of course, Professor Chambers has me stand up in front of the class and I show everyone my new blouse and my circle skirt which flares out delightfully as I twirl around to give everyone a full, 360-degree view. Professor Chambers critiques my work (and I mostly get excellent marks) but there's just a little puckering along one seam that I couldn't figure out how to handle - so the professor does a demonstration for the whole class about bias cuts and now it all makes sense. After class I'm happy and smiling. The girls have accepted me! And I did so well on my homework! After class, Professor Chambers gives me special praise plus some additional homework. Now I need to create an A-line flared dress. No longer a skirt and blouse. A complete dress. She gives me the pattern. "I know you can handle it," she says. Professor Chambers and I walk across the campus, chatting about sewing techniques, but as we cross the mall I see Professor Cambridge, heading into the physics building, looking more greasy and disgusting than ever. I stop short. "What's the matter?" Professor Chambers asks. "Nothing..." But I hold back. "Don't you have Intro Physics now?" "No," I lie. "I... um... actually I'm thinking of dropping Physics." I turn to walk to the library. There's no way I'm going into that class with Professor Cambridge. "But the drop/add period has expired. You'd get an 'F'," Professor Chambers runs after me. I shrug my shoulders. "Kelly Marshall, you stop right there!" I stop, then turn to face my professor. "Tell me what happened," she demands. I take a couple of deep breaths, and then with a shaky voice I recount what happened during Thanksgiving dinner. Professor Chambers listens to me patiently and without apparent emotion. "Thank you, Kelly. That took a lot of courage." I breath a sigh of relief. "And now, you're coming with me." Professor Chambers grabs me by the wrist and drags me to the physics building. "But... but... Professor Chambers..." I try to protest. She walks me into the building. "NO!" I shout as she opens the door to the Into Physics class. But with my two inch stiletto heels, it's all I can do to keep up as I stumble with her into the classroom. I can feel the eyes of all of the students looking at me and a furious whisper erupts in the classroom. [Who is she?] [Is that the geeky smart-ass kid who used to sit in back?] [I thought she was a man!] [Well, doesn't *she* clean up nice! I always knew she was a chick.] [You did not!] Professor Chambers drags me to the front of the class where Professor Cambridge is unpacking his briefcase. "Professor Cambridge," she says, in a low but commanding voice that can only be heard by the three of us. "Kelly has just finished telling me all about how you forced yourself on her at Thanksgiving dinner." "I wouldn't characterize it that way--" "Don't you play dumb with me, Ed. We both know what really happened. Do you remember Jane Darlington? Or Ellie Woodson? Or Mazie Hames?" Professor Cambridge's eyes turn wide with shock. "I've... I've never heard those names before," he stammers, trying to bluster his way through it. Now the class, reading Professor Cambridge's expression, really knows something's up. Whispers grow to an almost deafening roar. "Bullshit," Professor Chambers whispers tersely. I stare at her, shocked. Is this proper Professor Chambers? "I was a member of the committee which talked to all of those poor girls. None of them was willing to speak out against you and so we had to let it drop. But now that they're older, perhaps they've had a change of mind? Perhaps I should contact them with Kelly's story and see what they think?" "No!" Professor Cambridge blanches. "Please, I'd be ruined!" he whispers, urgently. "Well, then, here's what we'll do. First, you will apologize to Kelly. Second, you will promise this poor girl that it will never happen again." I could see Professor Cambridge squirming inside. Clearly it was the last thing he wanted to do. "Fine. I apologize, Kelly, if perhaps I misunderstood. It will not happen again." "And finally, if I hear that you so much as get within 10 feet of this poor girl, or give her anything less than her properly earned grade, I promise you -- *promise you* --" Professor Chambers said this last line with a particularly nasty growl, "-- I promise you that I will fetch the dean and we will string you up by your testicles from the flagpole for all to see. Do we understand each other?" Professor Cambridge gulps and stares back and forth between us about a dozen times. "Yes," he says, finally. "We understand each other." "Very good." Professor Chambers nods at me. "Kelly, take your seat." "Thank you, Professor Chambers!" my eyes are wet. "I take care of my girls," she says, giving me a quick hug and a kiss on the head before gently propelling me back to the class. * * * "Morgen, can I come in?" "Of course. Come in, Kelly!" she calls out. It's mid afternoon and Morgen is lounging on her bed, surrounded by books and notes for a paper she's writing. "I have something I need to show you." I slip off my robe. I am naked underneath. "Oh, Kelly! You're beautiful!" Morgen exclaims. "Your breasts! I knew they would be large with nice fat nipples, but not like this! They are amazing! And look at that thin waist, and those beautiful legs!" "Morgen!" I cry, "that's not the problem!" I point to my crotch. "Between your legs? I mean, I guess you've shrunk down there, but that was to be expected, right? Okay it *is* really small now, was it always that tiny?" "Morgen, stop! I have no balls! Can't you see? They've gone!" "Oh my god!" Morgen hops out of bed and kneels down to inspect me closer. I spread my legs so she can get a closer look. "What happened?" "Whenever I put on a girdle, they sort of, just slip inside my body. I like it because it makes a nice smooth front, you know? But then, last night, they never came out after I undressed. I thought, you know, that maybe they would pop back out over night? But they didn't. And then I had classes this morning, and now... what do I do??" "You've been wearing girdles all day?" "Well," I fidget, embarrassed, "yes." Morgen clucks her tongue. "What?" "It's the curse," she says. "It's turning you into a girl." "Magic again? Please, Morgen! This is serious!" "Yes, magic again! Kelly! Open your eyes! This *is* serious! You sound like a girl. You have these beautiful breasts, a nice thin waist, a luscious round bottom and your skin is so soft and smooth. When did you last shave?" "I shave every day!" I say, incensed. "I meant your face." "Oh." I think back. "Maybe... three, four weeks ago?" "And now look at your face. Downy soft. And your hair - so incredible. *I* wish I had hair as full as yours! And now this. Face facts, Kelly, you are turning into a girl! It's magic." "I... I... Well, I know there have been changes, but it's all reversible, isn't it? Didn't you say it was reversible?" "I... I don't know for sure. I think so." Morgen's fingers gently probe around my crotch. "There's a small fold here," she says. "A... cleft. I guess that's where your... um... scrotum has come together?" "And what's worse is itches like something crazy. I can barely stand it. And you know, scratching down there... well, when I was a man it was barely okay. But now?" "No no! I understand. No need to elaborate. Listen, before she died, Mom... uh... gave me this salve..." "A salve? To reverse this?" "Ha! No. Just to... um... make it feel a bit more comfortable. For the itching. Come." Morgen pushes aside the books and papers on her bed and then pulls me into her lap. I feel a bit weepy and anxious and so I'm glad to be in her arms again. She reaches over to her nightstand and pulls out a small flat ceramic pot with a wide mouth. She twists off the top, places the pot on the nightstand and then dips a finger into it. "Oh, god, that, uh, is quite a musky smell," I say, wrinkling my nose. "Pungent." "Indeed. Does it remind you of anything?" Morgen asks me. She places a finger into my crotch and presses it into the fold that's developed there, rubbing the salve deep in to the cleft. It immediately soothes the burning itch. Ah... blessed relief! After a second she lifts the finger to my nose and I get a good whiff. "Uh..." the smell is familiar, but I can't quite place it. "I don't know." "Hunh," Morgen says. She takes another glob from the ceramic pot and rubs it into my crotch. This time she grasps my naked breasts with her free hand and massages them and pinches my nipples as she works in the salve. "Morgen," I gasp, "what are you doing?" "Nothing," she says in a wicked, sing-song voice. I squirm as she works her finger over my small penis, stroking it. It gets a little engorged, but not really hard. "Oh... Morgen..." I gasp. It has been a couple of weeks since we were in bed together like this. "You know that this is all part of the curse, right?" "Curse?" I gasp. "Yes, the magical curse." "But there's no--" "No such thing as magic, yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that. I choose to believe that there is a curse, and that it started the first time you put on those panties. Now you could have fought the curse, and it would have let you go, but you didn't, did you?" "No, I guess not..." I squirm some more. Oh, her fingers are little devils, bringing me so close to the edge! "So, now, the longer you wait, the more of a girl you become. Already you've come a long way. But there's still one very important way in which you're not a girl, and now even that's changing." "Oh... Morgen... please," I'm tensing up, feeling so randy. "Oh, fine," she says, using her finger on my penis and along the cleft. 'Just like I'm a woman,' the thought occurs to me, as her magical fingers bring me to a glorious orgasm. I whimper in pleasure as it courses through my body. Morgen hugs me from behind, my naked body in her arms, as I catch my breath and enjoy the afterglow. "All done, Kelly?" she coos softly into my ear. "Yes," I sigh. With orgasms like that, I really don't miss my balls at all. "Good, now listen to me carefully," she says, turning me to face her. "Do you understand what I'm saying? You're turning into a woman. Your... uh... male equipment... is disappearing. If you let this go for much longer, it will be too late. It may already be too late. You're under a curse!" "But..." I stammer. "I mean, what are you saying?" "I'm saying you should stop now. Go back to being Marshall." "But you just took all of my male clothes away! You took them to the Salvation Army." "You can get them back," she shrugs. "It's within walking distance. I'll even give you the money." "Maybe I should," I shrug my shoulders. "Okay, good. Then I don't have to show you the dress I picked out for you to wear for dinner and the orchestra in New York." An electric thrill shoots through my body. "Dress?" I ask, trying to sound casual, but the squeak in my voice betrays me. Morgen sighs. "Here, let me show you." I slip on my robe and and Morgen leads me through the house into the master bedroom and then into Mrs. Feyla's closet. "Oh my gosh!" I hold my hands over my mouth, astonished. Morgen has pulled out the dress and it's hanging on a dress hook. It is a dark coral color, long and elegant and made of a shiny fabric which practically glows in the sunlight coming through the closet window. I slowly walk to the gown, struck by its beauty. It's a boat-neck gown with exposed shoulders gathered at the left waist such that the fabric creates diagonal drapes. "Is it...?" I ask, hesitantly touch the fabric. Oh gosh, it's so smooth. "It's silk," Morgen confirms. The word gives me goosebumps. "Oh no... I can't... Oh Morgen," I turn to her with wide and shocked eyes. "It's a Bill Blass!" "Bill Blass?" "Only like the hottest designer working today! My god, how much did this cost?" "I don't know. All I know is that Mom bought it on her last shopping trip to New York but then never got to wear it because of the cancer." "I can't wear this, Morgen. I can't!" "Why not?" "It's... Well, for one, it's too expensive. Two, it's your mother's. Three... I don't know what three is, but I'm sure there is one. I can't wear it." "You don't seem to have a problem wearing her other dresses." "Well, they're just house dresses. Nothing like this!" "Listen, I already cleared it with Dad. He said you should wear it. Mom felt terrible never having been able to wear it, and that having you wear it would help achieve a kind of closure." "But still..." "Here. Let's have you try it on." "I'll put on my girdle!" "Seriously?" Morgen calls out after me as I trot out of the closet and back to my room. "You know what girdles are doing to your man parts, don't you? And you still want to wear them??" "Shut up!" I shout back. "None of your business!" A few minutes later I'm back with panties and a girdle. "Stockings too?" Morgen asks, shaking her head. "My god, you're taking to all of this girly shit like a duck to water, aren't you?" "Just trying to be proper young woman. After all you're the one who ratted me out to your father." "After you ran into him naked in the hallway," she reminds me. "Now, let's find you a strapless bra." "A... a what? Strapless?" "With that neckline? Yes, Kelly. It needs to be strapless." We sift through the dresser drawers together. "This," Morgen says, holding up a large construction. It's a bustier / corset by 'Carnival' covered in a beautifully delicate flowered lace with small pearl accents, heavily boned and underwired. It covers my entire torso. "I have to switch to a panty girdle," I say, running back to my room. "There is something wrong with you!" Morgen shouts after me. "You know this is the curse," she reiterates when I'm back. "So you say." Morgen helps me to put on the corset and fastens the hooks in back (there are seven of them!). The corset is snug, but surprisingly comfortable. I adjust it so it settles right and my breasts feel supported. "Oh god, look at that cleavage," Morgen says. "Too bad it won't be visible with the dress. Or maybe not too bad, since you're practically pornographic." Morgen helps me with my stockings and then I'm ready to slip on the dress. It's lined and feels so sensuous as I step into it and pull it up my body. I have to duck as we pull the neck over my head and I slip my arms into it. Once it's settled around my body, Morgen helps me zip up the side. I run my hands down the silk fabric. It feels incredible on my body. I turn my face to Morgen with a feeling of joy that's undeniable. "It has matching pumps." Morgen pulls out a shoebox. I slip my stocking feet into the satin four inch pumps. They have been dyed to exactly match the color of the dress. "I shouldn't have done this," Morgen says, shaking her head. "What is wrong with me? Maybe it's the curse. It must be the curse." "Morgen, what's the matter?" "Kelly, look at you! You look gorgeous!" "But... isn't that a good thing?" "No! No, it's not. Kelly, the curse. It's close to being irreversible, I'm sure of it. If you go down this path any further, you may be stuck. Is that what you want?" "No..." "Then, let's get you undressed. I'll tell Dad that we're cancelling the concert." "No! Please, Morgen. The concert is just this Saturday!" "Yes?" "What I mean is..." I turn to look at myself in the mirror, amazed at how beautiful the gown is. "I'll be fine. I just... I just really want to wear this. Just once. To New York. And then after Saturday, I'll go buy back all my male clothes from the Salvation Army and return everything I've borrowed, and I'll go back to being Marshall." "Kelly, I just don't think this is a good idea. Seriously, I don't." "Please... Morgen, please??" I hate the pleading in my voice, but there's just something about this dress... I *have* to wear it. I feel obsessed... or addicted. Like if don't take this chance then I'll regret it for the rest of my life. "Okay, fine," Morgen says, with an exaggerated sigh. "I don't know why I even bother. I think you're too far gone already." "Am not." "Are too. Okay, but now listen carefully, alright? You can wear the dress, but you have not to get in any deeper." "What... what do you mean?" "You must *not* do anything that only a woman would do. Do you understand? The more you give in to your feminine feelings... the more you act like a woman... the more you're in danger. The more you will change." "Like what? What am I not supposed to do?" "Oh, I don't know. Like don't kiss anyone. Don't kiss a man." "Ew," I wrinkle my nose. "That'll never happen! No way!" "You never know," Morgen has a strange expression on her face. "You never know." "Trust me," I say. "I know." "And other stuff. Don't do any other stuff." "Like what other stuff?" "You know," Morgen says, shrugging. "Other stuff. Stuff that men and women do together." "Of course not!" I am shocked. "Who do you think I am?" "You are Kelly," she says simply. "And you've been wearing cursed clothing. And you continue to wear it. So..." But she doesn't finish her sentence. * * * I cautiously enter the ladies restroom on the third floor of the Liberal Arts building and look around. There's an actual lobby area in the bathroom with benches and mirrors. I go through this 'foyer' and into the bathroom proper, my heels 'click clicking' on the black and white tiled floor. I find a stall (they all have heavy wooden doors probably installed in the 50s) and let myself in. I have a hard time shaking the feeling that I'm doing something perverted. Of course I know that everyone on campus thinks I'm a woman now. I've been wearing skirts to all my classes and a lot of people have come up to me remarking on my 'new look'. "I always knew you were a woman," a lot of them say. 'Even when I was really a man?' Is what I'm thinking in my head. Of course, I'm *still* a man. Right? Of course I am. It's just that, you know, with the breasts and the hips and the girdle and the hair and makeup and nails everything... But just for now. Once the fancy dinner and concert with Morgen and Mr. Feyla is over, once I've had the chance to wear that fancy dress - then I'll switch back to being Marshall. What hasn't been so great is all the extra attention I'm getting from the boys on campus. And that's what they are: Boys. They are *not* men. They are just drooling, panting, not-house-trained annoying mutts. I'm working in the library and one just decides to sit right next to me, even though all of the other tables are empty. Like... what are you doing? I glare at him, but he just looks back with that panting, puppy-dog smile. And it's not cute. It's just stupid. Or I'm waiting in line at the cafeteria for lunch and one puts a hand on my ass. "Keep your hands to yourself!" I hiss at him, not wanting to make a scene. "Oh, sorry," he says, trying to look ashamed but pleased with himself all the same. "I didn't realize I was touching you." "Bullshit." "No, seriously. I didn't realize." But then he sniggers to his friend. "What can you do?" Morgen shrugs when I repeat the story to her. "They're dumb boys. It's what they do. One just has to find ways to cope. I think you handled it perfectly." And you'd think the teachers would be better, but they're not. I went to ask my English teacher a question, but he just stared at my breasts and didn't hear me. Of course it doesn't help that I'm wearing tight turtlenecks to school. Morgen insists I wear them. "Now that you're wearing skirts full time," she reasons, "you need to look like a student. And this is what they're wearing." Of course, the tight ribbed shirts make my breasts look absolutely gigantic. Big, round, ample appendages sticking out on my chest for everyone to see, held up and perky by one of Mrs. Feyla's industrial-strength bras so they protrude the maximum possible extent. I suppose it makes sense that the male teachers stare at them. So I learn to hold my books to my chest whenever talking to a male teacher or else I will see their eyes drift down, making me blush and feel self conscious. It gets so bad that their eyes might as well be physical fingers stroking lovingly over my curves trapped in the taught, ribbed turtleneck. Thank god for Mr. Feyla! He's practically the only man who treats me like a human being. He engages me in conversations in the morning or over dinner and only once or twice did I notice him quickly glance down at my tits, which I forgive because he is just a man, after all, and I mean I certainly know that my new bosom is really... well, you know... *ample*. Another thing I've had to get used to is using the ladies room. Just stepping into it the first time and seeing all the other girls standing at the sinks or lined up to use the stall... I just turned around and left. Over time, I've learned to use it at odd hours when it's less busy and to find bathrooms which are out of way, on a higher floor or in the basement, for example. This gives me a lot of practice navigating stairs in my high heels! And every time I see my hand on the banister coming out of a frilly or silken blouse and with the long pink nails... I would realize how much I've changed. I close and lock the stall and put my bookbag on the floor. Now I have to go through the laborious process of exposing my private bits. Today I am wearing the open girdle, so I detach the tabs from the stockings and then roll it up to expose my bottom, then I take down my panties and sit on the toilet and do my business. "You know, you don't have to wear girdles," Morgen tells me. My girdle- wearing always strikes her as funny and ridiculous. But I just ignore her. I'm not going to be wearing women's clothing for much longer, so if I want to wear girdles then I will! Now that I am done with my business and I've cleaned up "down there", I have one more job to do. I reach into the bookbag and pull out the ceramic pot of salve. Morgen recommends that I apply it every other hour and I don't mind because it feels amazing. It soothes the itch and also gives me other tingles which are really nice. I dip my finger into the pot and then rub a glob of the stuff into the cleft between my legs, sighing with relief. It's only been a few days, but already I can feel that the furrow down there is changing. The folds are getting puffer and fatter, more fleshy, and the skin inside is changing into something which is sticky and moist. Worse, it seems to be pulling my little penis further in so it's now not much more than a small protrusion surrounded by folds of its own. Of course I know it this looks like, and I realize what the salve smells like. I may not have much experience with women, but I have been intimate with Morgen practically all semester. So I know that what's happening is that my cleft is gradually turning into something which is like a woman's pussy. But of course that's impossible, right? It's probably just the salve making things more sensitive and sticky down there. And Morgen did say that it was all reversible, as long as I don't do anything which makes me feel more feminine, like kiss a man, although sometimes I wonder how could I possibly feel more feminine than I do right now what with my stockings and high heels and short skirts and painted nails and makeup and hair cascading around my face - not to mention these enormous breasts which tug and sway as I walk and this round bottom which seems to wiggle and sway and tug and attract all this unwanted attention with every step that I take. You try waking up in the morning with breasts and not feel like a woman. It's impossible. But still, the changes probably should worry me, but - oh god - it feels so good to rub the salve into the folds between my legs. I start with long strokes across the lips, pressing in deep and then lightly with fingertips across the top. Recently, I've noticed a depression starting to form near the bottom which feels just amazing when I probe into it. And it seems to be getting deeper. Today I can insert my finger into it all the way up to the first knuckle. Now *that* feels nice, I sigh, thrusting my fingertip in and out. But at some point my penis demands my attention, and so I use my other finger to stroke it while I continue my thrusting into that little depression (has it gotten even deeper now? I thrust a bit deeper to explore), stroking around the tip, in and between the folds that surround it, the pleasure building, can't stop now! I squirm and my nipples tingle and finally the pleasure crests into a yummy wave which courses through my body leaving me panting for more, trying to stifle my whimpers of pleasure. I lean against the stall, shivering with aftershocks, gradually settling down, my mind clearing. I feel an acute sense of shame. What am I doing, fingering myself in the bathroom? Is this what I've become? What happened to spending my free time reading about physics? Or doing my math homework? (Of course, I'm way ahead on both my physics and math homework, so...) I wipe my fingers and gently dab at my crotch with some toilet paper. Then I pull up my panties and roll down my open-bottom girdle and then re-attach the garters. I stand up and let my skirts settle back into place. I tuck in my blouse and make sure everything is adjusted comfortably. Finally, I re-cork the ceramic pot of salve, put it back into my bookbag and the leave the stall to wash up. I am already looking forward to the next session with the salve. What is wrong with me? * * * "I'll wear the man's suit and you can wear the woman's dress," Stacy says. Stacy and I are on the way to the library to get patterns for our joint project. We're required to make a set of clothes for 'a husband and his wife' and then we have to model them together. "Why do I have to wear the dress?" "Well, obviously you're way more feminine than me. I see you wearing girdles and stockings all the time." "You can tell?" "Of course I can tell! Everyone who's a woman can tell. And besides, I was a real tomboy growing up, you know. Nope, you'll wear the dress and be the housewife and I'll wear the suit and be the husband. It's the only way that makes sense. You're really not masculine enough to be the man, especially with that hair cut." I blush thinking about this. But I'm a man! I think to myself. How can I possibly be less feminine than Stacy? But then I think about what I'm wearing, a skirt, a girdle, stockings, makeup.... and I look over at Stacy who's wearing bell bottom jeans and a turtleneck with short hair and I can see her point. I am the more feminine one. "Check out the spaz," Stacy says with a nod. "Who? You mean Barry?" "*Barry*?" Stacy snorts. "That is *such* a spaz name. Look at his pants. Is he worried that there's going to be a flood? I bet his ankles are freezing." Stacy snorts. "He's in my physics class. He's super smart. I think he's studying to be a computer scientist." "*Computer* scientist? Now there's a dead-end job if I ever heard of one. No, I'm going to marry a banker or stock broker and he's going to become a millionaire. Nothing as spaz as a dead end career like physicist or computer scientist." "Physics and computer science is not spaz!" I say, a little too hotly. "Physicists and computer scientists are going to change the world, you just wait! And by the way, Barry's pants don't fit because he's too poor to afford a new pair. He's on a full scholarship, just like me." "Jeepers, I was just teasing, don't get your nose all out of joint." "I'm sorry, Stacy. Friends?" "Of course. Friends." We kiss and make up and then head on to the library. * * * "Check out the goody goodies studying for their M.R.S. degrees," John says, nodding. I'm studying for the physics final with John and Barry, two classmates. Barry shifts uncomfortably. "Who?" I ask. "There," John points. "Little hotties, come to papa," he says. "Those Home Ec chicks. I bet they're so up-tight they shit granite boulders. But I hear that once you breach their hard little exteriors, they turn into real moaning sluts in the bedroom." John makes some moaning sounds while pretending to orgasm. I look over. It's Stacy and some of the other girls from my Family Apparel class! Incensed, I stand up and slap John in the face. "Hey!" He shouts, looking at me, surprised. Suddenly, the entire library is dead quiet, looking at us. "HOW DARE YOU!" I shout. I try to slap him again, but this time he blocks me and grasps my wrist. "Don't you dare talk about my friends that way! You're a disgusting PIG. A Male Chauvinist PIG!" We're standing now and I'm struggling to get away, but John, angry, won't let go. "John, stop this," Barry whispers urgently. "Let her go!" But he doesn't. "You bitch" John hisses at me. "I'll teach you to embarrass me like that!" Just then, and I swear I don't know where it came from, but I step forward and kneel him hard in the groin. John sinks to the floor, gasping in pain, a hand on his crotch. "Let's get out of here," Barry says, helping gather up my stuff. "And it's not Home Ec," I spit out, angry. "It's Family and Consumer Studies." I'm about to kick John a second time, but Barry restrains me and drags me to another part of the library where we sit. We watch as John slowly gets up, gathers his things and limps out of the library. "What was that all about?" It's Stacy and my fellow students from Family Apparel. They are gathered around us. "Just some jerk wad." "He insulted Home Ec students and Kelly slapped him," Barry says, grinning. "Oh, Kelly? Seriously? That's amazing!" The other girls nod and agree and I get a number of thank you hugs. "We stick up for each other, don't we, girls?" Stacy says to general agreement. "I'm so glad you're one of us, Kelly," she says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. "Me too," I say, kissing her back. "And who is this? Aren't you going to introduce us?" "Stacy, this is Barry, from my physics class. Barry, Stacy." "A pleasure to meet you," Barry says,