HEELS

By: Deane Christopher

Copyrighted: 1999

*******************************************************

Note to prospective reader:  I think of myself not as a
writer or an author, but as a surrealistic wordsmith,
pioneering the literary art form of Out-based Free-
prose.  Therefore, in the following composition, any
and all adherence to the rules governing the proper use
of the English Language are purely coincidental.  The
reader will find the sentence structure has a marked
tendency to be somewhat cumbersome, due to the
extremely liberal use of adjectives.  Also, the follow
piece has its' fair share of dangling participles and a
whole caboodle of hyphenated words.

Another note to the prospective reader:  The following
story was based on a fairly simple, though admittedly
far fetched premise and was allowed to evolve on its'
own, surprising your most humble and obedient
surrealistic wordsmith with some of the twist and turns
it took as it did so.

And yet another tiresome note to the prospective
reader:  The follow story contains sexually explicit
and transgender related material.  If you are under age
or are afraid that the perusal of such vulgar subjects
might curve your spine, grow hair on the palms of your
hands, rot your brain or something or other along those
lines, the answers is simple.  STOP!  READ NO FURTHER!


*******************************************************


HEELS


	Ostensible, Paul Meadows had purchased the pumps
as a present for his wife.  However, even as the perky
salesgirl handed him the plastic bag containing the
just purchased heels, Paul knew that that wasn't the
case at all.  Janice, Paul's wife of twenty some odd
years or so, had a thing about her height.  And do to
that persnickety idiosyncrasy of her's, she had long
ago foregone wearing any foot-ware with heels over two
and a half inches.

	Even as Paul strolled out of the boutique with the
bag containing the just purchased footwear, he knew
that Janice, while appreciating the thought behind the
purchase, would never - Ever! - wear 'em.

	Hell, Paul wasn't even sure if the heels were his
wife's size or not.

	He had, on a whim, just walked into the boutique
and bought 'em!

	And that troubled the livin' shit out of him.

	As he continued down the mall's upper concourse
with his purchase in hand, a very perplexed Paul
Meadows endeavored to fathom the reason or reasons as
to just why in hell he had bought the damn things in
the first friggin' place.

	Was Paul Meadows a compulsive buyer?

	No, not normally.  General speaking, with the
exception of vacations, Paul was reasonable
conservative in his buying habits.  Sure, every once in
awhile, like most people, he would treat himself to a
book or a CD or some new fishing tackle or something
along those lines.  But that was about it.

	That brought him to examine the next question.
Did he have some sort of latent foot fetish that
revolved around woman and their wearing high heel
shoes?

	No, though, when push came to shove, he would fess
up and reluctantly admit that he was a definitely a
legman and that to his way of thinking, high heel pumps
did have a marked tendency to heightened the
attractiveness of an already well sculpted pair of
female legs.

	"So,', Paul inquired of himself, 'just why in hell
did you purchase the pumps?'

	Oddly enough, he couldn't - For the life of
himself! - come up with an answer to that rather
persnickety, if not, quintessential question.

	One thing Paul did know was: he wasn't about to
turn around and march back into the boutique so he
could return them.  For some strange reason, he knew,
on an intuitive level of his being, that once bought,
the heels were going to stay bought.


* * *


	His first thought was to regulate the purchase of
the high heel pumps to nothing more than some sort of
nonsensical whim on his part.  However, as he slid
behind the wheel of his car for the short hop, skip and
jump back to the motel he was staying at, Paul came to
the realization that there had been nothing whimsical
about the purchase of the heels what so ever.  Though
it had been as subtle as all get-out, Paul arrived at
the simple truth of the matter.  He, though he wasn't
aware of it at the time, had been cunningly, if not
subliminally, compelled into buying the pair of
stiletto heeled, dick-teaser specials.

	Initially, Paul Meadows had first caught sight of
the high heels as he passed along the mall's upper
concourse on his way to the food court.  Fact is, he
was a good two stores past the prissy little woman's
boutique before it consciously registered that there
had been a pair of black stiletto heeled pumps in the
lower right hand corner of one or anothers of the
boutique's entry-way display windows in the first
place.

	For some reason or another, though he was never
sure as to what compelled him to do so, Paul Meadows
found himself making an abrupt turnabout.  In short
order, he was standing in front of the boutique,
gazing, somewhat befuddled, down at the heels.

	'Yes sir re-bob!', he sarcastically chided
himself.  'They're heels alright!  Your standard
issued, black, pointy toed, high heeled opera pumps!'.

	However, Paul Meadows' inspection of the slender
heeled footwear only lasted a brief second or so.
Then, having gained conformation that he had seen
exactly what he had thought he had seen when he had
initially past by the boutique, a slightly bemused Paul
Meadows, without another thought about the pumps, was
once again making his way to the mall's food court and
a late afternoon lunch.

	As he sat at one of the food court's tables,
steadily devouring a rather tasty hot roast beef
sandwich and the mound of fries it was so succulently
buried beneath, Paul's thoughts only strayed to the
high heels he had recently taken note of on one just
one fleeting, extremely short-lived occasion.  As he
clandestinely eyed the passersby as he sat there
munching away at his food, Paul took note of a rather
nice looking young woman, who's attractiveness, he
speculated to himself, would have been highly enhanced
had she been wear the stiletto heeled pumps he had so
recently taken note of, instead of the ugly and
unflattering, multi-strapped, bulky-soled, deep-sea
diver emulating, foot-gear she was so unattractive
sporting.

	Then, having polished off his lunch without
another thought to the stiletto heeled opera pumps,
Paul Meadows deposited his trash in the appropriate
receptacle and, with a quick, look-see at his watch,
just to assure himself that he still had plenty of time
to catch the movie he had opted to take in that
afternoon, he set off towards the other end of the
mall, casually traversing the opposite side to that
upon which the aforementioned boutique was situated.

	As he made his way along the upper concourse's
balcony-like mezzanine, Paul, as was his wont, passed
his time by casually glancing at both shops and
shoppers.  Oddly enough, having caught a fleeting
glimpse of the boutique that was up ahead and off to
his right, Paul Meadows, at the first opportunity
presented to him and, without a conscious thought as to
the impetus as to why he did so, altered his path and,
using one of the upper concourse's bridge-like
crossovers, passed over to the far side of the divided
open-air mezzanine so as to ensure that his travels
would once again afford him yet another inspection of
the heels.  Strangely enough, having gone to all that
trouble, Paul didn't so much as slow his pace as he
came abreast of the boutique and the display window
where-in the pumps were to be seen.

	Hell!  As strange as it might seem, given what
occurred later that afternoon, shortly after he had
exited the mall's theater complex, Paul  Meadows didn't
slacken his gait one iota as he breezed by the shop.
Truth be told, all Paul did as he strolled along was to
affix his eyes on the stiletto heeled pumps as they
came into sight ahead and then, keeping his gaze
affixed on them, allowed his head to pivot back over
his shoulder as he passed by and, without a break in
his stride, continued to casually make his way along
the concourse, his ultimate goal being the theater
complex located at the far end of the mall.

	The movie Paul saw the afternoon was one he had
been eagerly wanting to see, but ended up being
somewhat of a major disappointed.  Long on special
effects.  Short on plot.

	However, the popcorn had been delicious and, all
things considered, Paul found the movies a more
pleasurable way to while away the waning hours of the
afternoon then having to spend it mulling around the
convention hall, engaging in this, that or some other
trivial and non-essential thing, or, if not that,
sequestered in his hotel room, mindlessly watching one
or another of the syndicated afternoon talk shows.

	Oddly enough, considering the fact that as soon as
the flick was over, Paul Meadows, without a thought as
to the impetus behind why he was doing so, made a
beeline dash to the boutique, where he wasted no time
at all in securing the services of a sale girl and
purchasing the heels, not once mind you, during the
whole entire run of the picture, had he given a
conscious thought to the high heels, much less
entertained the absurd notion of actually returning to
the boutique and procuring them.

	And here's something else that, in retrospect,
given the rather strange, in not bizarre, chain of
events that the heels would begin to engender later
that evening, once Paul Meadows tossed the plastic bag
containing pumps unto the back-seat of his car, damned
if he didn't come within a hair's breath of up and
forgetting all about them.

	Truth be told, Paul was in the process of
unlocking the door to his motel room when - all of a
sudden - it dawned on him: he had absentmindedly left
the just purchased heels on the rear seat of his car.

	'Shit!', he mentally castigated himself.  'You'd
probably forget your own head if it was attached!

	'So what are you going to do... you big dummy
dunderhead, you?'

	'Do you leave 'em there... y'know, to temp a would
be thief?  Or... do you play it smart and shag your ass
back out there and retrieve 'em?'

	Well, since it was definitely a no-brainer, Paul,
who had already had to replaced one side window, not to
mention a fairly expensive AM/FM radio/cassette player
that some dastardly and dishonest so-and-so had made
off with, opted to do the prudent thing, with that
prudent thing being: returning to his car and reclaimed
the heels posthaste.

	Oddly enough, Paul, who had decided to polish off
what was left of the afternoon by taking a refreshing
dip in the motel's heated indoor pool and there by,
hopefully, work up some sort of an appetite for a late
evening dinner, discarded the bag on his room's wall-
mounted dresser, right alongside the TV, and without
another thought to the heels contained within, busied
himself with the task of changing into his bathing
suit.

	Forty five minutes and a whole shitload of laps
later, a refreshed, if not some what physically
tuckered out Paul Meadows returned to his room and
jumped into the shower.  Ten minutes after that, having
toweled himself off, Paul Meadows began the task of
dressing himself.  As he did so, his eyes caught sight
of the decorative bag containing the heels and that
brought him up short.

	"What in God's name,", he sarcastically inquired
of himself, "possessed me to buy those bad boys in the
first friggin' place?

	"I mean...", Paul, who had the troublesome habit
of talking to himself when alone, chided himself as he
withdrew the rather prissily decorated shoe box from
the confines of the boutique's fancy and femininely
logoed shopping bag, "...you know Janice is never going
to wear 'em!"

	"You know something else...", Paul gruffly
quipped, as he gingerly extracted one of the stiletto
heeled pumps from the tissue paper lined box, "You
really are a certifiable asshole... buying something as
foolish as a pair of heels that your wife is never -
Ever! - going to wear!"

	Then, unaware of the fact that he was never going
to get up the gumption to actually go through with the
threat, Paul Meadows assertedly proclaimed, "First
thing tomorrow... right after you get through with your
part of the presentation and you turn the proceedings
over to your cohort Ed... you're going to get in your
car and drive back over to the mall and return 'em!"

	Unbeknownst to himself, during his self-directed
tirade, Paul, with a high heel in one hand and the
shoe-box containing the other stiletto heeled pump in
other, had back himself to the foot of the room's queen
sized bed, where upon, he gingerly, if not somewhat
distractedly, seated himself.

	"Hmmm...", Paul, dressed only in a fresh pair of
skivvies, mused aloud to himself as he began a cursory
examination of the pump he so gingerly held in his
hand.  "Even if I do say so myself... they are rather
attractive... and... I'd be more than willing to bet
that had that girl over at the mall been wearing a pair
of these bad boys... y'know, instead of those klunky,
deep sea diver emulating monstrosities she had on...
she'd a jumped a whole rating point!  Y'know, as in:
she'd a been a solid nine... y'know, instead of a lack-
luster eight...

	"Hell!", he continued aloud.  "Janice... if she
could get past her aversion to wearing something with a
tapering heel as lofty and as needle thin as these bad
boys... would look absolutely stunning!"

	Paul's mere mentioning of his wife's name caused
him to take off on another tangent altogether.

	"Damn!", he exclaimed.  "I'll bet you that they
aren't anywhere near her size!

	"I mean... even though her foot isn't in any way,
shape or form, overly large... there's no way these
heels would ever fit her!  They're way... way... way to
small!", Paul bemusedly quipped as he re-positioned his
lower extremities; raising the outer run of his left
ankle and resting it, in a very manly fashion, just
above the kneecap of his right leg.  Then, without any
realization as to impetus as to why he did so, Paul
took the pump he was holding and moved it alongside his
newly re-positioned left foot, so as to allow for an
impromptu, gauge-by-eye, stare and compare, size
comparison.

	As expected, Paul's foot dwarfed the dainty high
heeled black leather opera pump.  However, though it
did, Paul, who was feeling strangely curious, not to
mention, uncharacteristically impish, brought the shoe
around and poised it joshingly over his toes, as if he
was going to actually go so far as to try the pump on.

	And try it on is exactly what Paul Meadows did.

	Incredulously, shocking the shit out of himself in
the process, the stiletto heeled pump slipped smoothly
and snugly onto Paul's up-raised foot.  His toes,
though they felt confined and a wee bit more
constrained than they normally felt when shod, encased
as they were inside of the pointy toed portion of the
stiletto heeled pump, didn't feel as if they were being
scrunched.

	"Well I'll be damned!", he exclaimed aloud.  "It
fits!  The damn thing actually fits!"

	Then, as he sat there, looking down at his foot
and the high heel which so incredulously adorned it,
the absurdity of what had just occurred hit him like
that persnickety and proverbial ton of bricks that
you're always hearing about.

	"This is crazy!  Absolutely crazy!

	"There's no friggin' way that that shoe should
have ever fit on one of these size eleven and a half
gunboats of mine!

	"I mean... it was way - Way! - to small!"

	Still, a thoroughly bemused and befuddled Paul
Meadows did have to concede the fact that upon his left
foot was perched what appeared to be your classic,
woman's, pointy toed, spiked heeled, dick-teaser's
special, opera pump.

	"Wait just a ding dong minute here!  Either that
damn shoe is bigger then it was... or...", his tone
waxed thoughtful, "...my foot has somehow become a
whole hell of a lot smaller!"

	A quick, if not panicked, stare and compare,
employing both his un-shod foot and the other high
heel, informed Paul, in no uncertain terms, that both
of his summarizes had been dead on the money.  The high
heel that dangled so tantalizingly on the end of his
lower left appendage was indeed quite a few sizes
larger than its' mate.  And likewise, his left foot was
markedly smaller than his un-shod right foot.

	"What the f...", Paul Meadows was as incredulous
as all get out.  "What the shit's going on here?

	"I mean... am I whacked out or what?  Perhaps.."
Paul, who was grasping at straws in an all out effort
to explain the phenomena that his donning of the heels
had in some mystical way engendered, frantically
speculated, "...I'm suffering from some sort of
surrealistic delirium tremens... y'know, that are the
result of some sort of LSD flashback or something...
y'know, that are frankly preposterous... y'know, given
the fact that I - Never!  Ever! - messed around with
that sort of shit in the first friggin' place...
y'know, 'casue I knew - Right from the get go! - that
messing around with that sort of crap could only lead
to trouble..."

	Just then, just as his frantic tirade was
beginning to pick up the pace, it dawned Paul that the
idiosyncrasies revolving around the re-sizing of both
his foot and the high heel it sported weren't the only
things that were inexplicable out of kilter.  	His
leg.  With the leg in question being his left leg.	
The very appendage upon which dangled the stiletto
heeled epitome of damn near every foot fetish's wet
dream, from knee downwards, had also undergone a most
remarkable, and to Paul's way of thinking, very
distressing make-over.  The most striking feature was,
it was completely hairless; as smooth and silky soft as
a new born's pink little derriere.  Secondly, a
horrified Paul Meadows was quick to take note of the
fact, from knee downwards, his left leg lacked any and
all semblance of its' former masculinity.  Rather, from
knee downwards, his left leg was the embodiment of
everything feminine;  well turned at ankle, calf and
heel and as seductively attractive to his male mind as
all get out.

	"Shit!", a tortured expletive escaped Paul's lips
as his eyes alerted him to the undeniable fact that the
femininity that had engulfed and, in due course,
transsexualized the lower portion of his left leg was
steadily climbing upwards towards his crotch.  On the
brink of panic, hoping to stem, if not bring about a
complete reclamation of the affected appendage, Paul
frantically reached down and none to gently, plucked
the pump from off of his foot.

	The next half a dozen or so heart beats were
fraught with an ominous sense of dread, as an extremely
apprehensive and somewhat shell-shocked Paul Meadows
sat there, waiting and watching, as he hoped and prayed
that his very sexy left leg would revert to its' former
masculine deportment.

	And revert it did.

	Quickly and efficiently Paul's leg progressively
returned to its' former maleness.  In somewhat less
than the passage of a full blown minute of his hasty
and panicked removal of the stiletto heeled opera pump,
his leg was once again a very manly, if not hirsuted,
appendage.

	Though his nerves had been severely shaken by what
had just occurred, Paul, though thoroughly frazzled and
in need of a stiff drink to help him get his shit back
together, had enough of his wits about him to make a
couple of logical deductions.

	'Magic!', he incredulous speculated.  'As crazy as
it sounds, magic is the only explanation I can come up
with to explain what just happened!

	'I mean...', Paul began to reason the thing out
for himself as he busied himself with the task of
pouring himself a more than generous amount of scotch,
'for starters... there was no way in hell that I should
have been able to put one of those shoes on to begin
with!  Y'know, given how big these feet of mine are and
how dainty those heels are!'

	That thought compelled Paul to return to the foot
of the bed and make a quick comparison of the heels in
order to see whether or not the pump that he had tried
on had reverted to its original petiteness.

	As he expected, both pumps were the same exact
size; adding weight to Paul's coalescing supposition
that the high heels were infused with some sort of
magical where-with-all which, he could only summarized,
allow them to somehow do what they had just done to
him.

	"I wonder...", he quizzically mused to himself, as
he once again seated himself on the bed, '...would the
same sort of thing happen if I tried on the other
pump..."

	The answer: a definitive and resounding yes.

	Paul, who was generally a rather staunch adherent
to the 'no balls - no glory' axiom,  once he got up the
gumption to put his question to the test, found that
his right leg faired the very same way that his left
one had.

	Once again, a shoe that never should have fit,
did.  Snugly and comfortable.  And Paul, who now had an
inkling of what might occur next, looked on with rapt
attention as his right leg made a sensually smooth and
progressive transition, going from a characteristically
male appendage to characteristically female one in the
matter of a few brief moments.

	This time however, unlike the previous time, a
extremely intrigued Paul Meadows rode rough shod over
his churning apprehensions so as to allow the re-
sculpturing process to continue further up his leg.
Oddly enough, once the feminization process had laid
claim to his whole entire leg and, he assumed, right
hinny cheek, it inexplicable came to a full and
complete stop, leaving Paul with one masculine leg and
one leg which, to his utter amazement, was as
tantalizing and seductively feminine in its' appearance
as a legman, the like of one Paul Meadows himself,
could ever hope to feast their sorry eyes upon.

	One minute became two, as Paul sat there, admiring
the shit out his femininely re-sculptured leg.
Suddenly, it dawned on him, the leg - his leg - was
doing a real number on his libido.

	Succinctly put, Paul realized that he was becoming
as horny as hell and that his male member had begun to
rise to the occasion.

	'Shit!', he thought.  'Damned if I'm not getting a
boner!

	'I mean...  Who'da thought that a guy could turn
himself on by just gawking at his very own feminine
looking leg!'

	 Then, acting on a wild impulse, Paul, in an
effort to reassure himself, took his right hand and
slipped it beneath the elastic waist band of the jockey
shorts he was wearing.

	A quick grope, followed immediately by a frantic
grope, informed him that all was not kosher down there
in and around his genitalia.  While his penis seemed to
be fully intact and, he could only assume, in
relatively good working order, his right testicle was
missing.  Gone the way of the dodo.  And though he had
no right to expect differently, continued probing on
Paul's part turned up evidence of the inroads of an
anatomy that, heretofore, he had only encounter
elsewhere.

	As his index and middle finger drew upwards,
tracing their way along the multiple lip-folds that
flowed, crescent-like, around the right-hand side of
his already shriveling manly providence, Paul, who was
well acquainted with such anatomy, given all the hours
and hours he had amassed dickering around with that of
his wife Janice's, knew - Without the shadow of a
doubt! - that what he was exploring down there, was
nothing less than developing lip folds a woman's
vagina.

	Quickly, like Meatloaf's bat out of hell, Paul,
who was more than a little traumatized by the find,
yanked his hand out from underneath his underwear and
had that spiked heeled pump off his foot in one
frenzied, lickety split of a Chinese fire drill
emulating motion.

	I mean to tell you.  He was faster than fast.

	Dropping the shoe as if it were a hot ember fresh
from a blazing hearth, Paul immediately rammed his hand
back inside his jockey shorts, hoping, as he had never
in his life before hoped, to find that those troubling
new lip folds of his were already in the process of
reverting... or changing... or whatever... back into
the testicle that they had somehow, in some mystical,
magical way, supplanted.

	"Shit!

	"Shit!  Shit!  Shit!   Shit", the multiple lip
folds were still very much in evidence.  They weren't,
to Paul's ever lovin' chagrin, changing back.  Neither,
he realized, was his leg.  It was still as feminine in
appearance as it had been before he so hastily reached
down and none to graciously, removed the stiletto
heeled pump.

	"Damn!", he felt besieged by a sense of abject
hopelessness.  "Am I going to have to spend the rest of
my life like this!  A freak!  With one leg male!  The
other... about as feminine looking as a feminine leg
can look!

	"Shit!  I'll never - Ever! - be able to wear
shorts or a friggin' bathing suit out in public again!"

	Then, as he sat there, perched on the edge of his
motel room's queen size bed, sadly bemoaning the cruel
and diabolical fate that the heels had inflicted on
him, he gazed downward, only to become aware of the
fact that the upper portion of his right leg was once
again as manly as it had been prior to donning the high
heel.  A quick, to be almost frantic, hand grope of his
groin relayed the knowledge that his genitalia had also
returned to normal.

	'Now that's weird!', Paul began to internally
ruminate over the matter.  'The first time I took off
one of those bad boys, my left leg started to change
back almost immediately.  However, this last time,
there was a very, very, if not extremely troubling,
delay.

	'Now, I wonder why that was...

	'What was different, Paul?', he posed the question
to himself.  "How come?  How come, the first time you
removed one of the heels your leg started to revert
back right from the get-go, but the second time, there
was a... for lack of a better way to put it... a bit of
lag time... y'know, between the removal of the pump and
the reverting process kicking in... y'know, that
worried the shit out of you... thinking that you might
have to go through life with a pair of legs that
aren't... shall we say... in sexual sync with one
another...

	'Wait a second!', Paul hit on something.  'I think
I might just have the answer!  Trouble is, in order to
prove out this new little hypothesis of mine, I'm going
to have to put it to the test and that means: I going
to have bite the bullet and try on one of these
stiletto heeled dick-teaser specials again.

	"Let me see...  Last time out, I went with the
right one.  So, tell you what we're going to do.  I'm
going to go back and use the left one for this little
experiment of mine."

	So saying, Paul Meadows, experiencing a twinge of
trepidation, picked up the appropriate pump and proceed
on with his experiment.

	For the second time that day, Paul's left leg,
under the influence of what he now incredulous believed
to be a magically infuse high heel shoe, made the
steady transition, going from a male appearing
appendage to the balls to the walls epitome of a
femininely sculptured one.  This time though, armed
with the foreknowledge of what had happen to his
genitalia the last time out, Paul was ready and so, had
the fingers of his left hand in place, so that they
could monitor the changes which, he presumed, would
occur in and around the area of his groin.  Though
expected, he was still unnerved  when his left testicle
began to atrophy and the concurrent blossoming of the
very familiar multiple lip folds that are the  hallmark
of a female's vaginal orifice.

	Then, when he felt that process had run its'
course, Paul glanced over to the night table and the
digital AM/FM clock radio which resided there and made
a mental note of time.

	Five minutes.  He would wait a full five minutes.
No more.  No less.  And while Paul nervously kept his
gaze lock on the clock, tracking the passage of time,
he absentminded continued to finger-grope and explore
the rather convoluted and somewhat disquieting
deportment of his loins, which he realized, were
neither entirely male, nor entirely female, but a
bizarre juxtaposition of the two.

	One minute...

	Two minutes...

	Three.

	Then four.

	And finally, after what seemed to Paul to have
been an interminable wait, a full five had transpired.

	Paul move to the second phase of his experiment by
reaching down with his right hand and removing the heel
from daintily made-over foot.

	"Shit!", he exclaimed, as he took note of the fact
that the toenails of his left foot - a very femininely
shape foot at that - the very one upon which the spiked
heel had but a moment before resided, glistened with
the silver-white hue of a fresh application of nail
polish.

	Trepidation mounted as Paul sat there marking time
by finger-probing and prodding his strangely re-
configured loins and repeatedly second guessing
himself; calling into question his judgement by
wondering if this little experiment of his had been a
good idea or not.

	One minute came and went.

	Then two.

	Then three.

	And by the time the fourth minute rolled by, Paul
was on pins and needles.

	Finally, the full five minutes had come and gone
and just about the time that Paul was ready to give up
the ghost and concede the fact that he had goofed - Big
F'in Time! - the fingers of his left hand alerted him
to the irrefutable fact that: on one hand, the multiple
vagina-like lip folds were beginning to quickly
coalesce into a single ridge line and that that
crescent shaped, penis cuddling ridge line was in the
process of flatten itself out and on the other hand; a
little sack-like nub of skin had manifested itself
alongside the left side of the base of the shaft of his
penis and that that little nub was progressively
expanding, growing steadily into a full blown, sperm
producing testicle.

	Paul was both relieved and exhilarated.  His
theory, when put to the test, had passed with flying
colors.

	"Okay, Paul!", he said aloud to himself.  "You
done good!"

	Then, in a more speculative tone of voice, he
posed the question, "So, where to know?

	"I mean... do we continue to experiment with these
heels... or... do we do the smart thing... the safe
thing... and stick these bad boys back in their box;
put their box in the bag they came in; stuff that box
in your suitcase; get dressed and go grab some dinner?"

	Paul knew, even as he gave voice to it, that it
had been a stupid question.  While it was true that he
was starting to work up a healthy appetite and would
have to put some serious thought into getting dressed
and going out to eat, he was far to intrigued with the
heels and the mind-blowing, mind-boggling effects they
had on his physiology to stop dickering around with
them at the present.

	"I know!  I know!  There's no sense belaboring the
point!  That - If ever there was one! - was a stupid,
crazy-assed question!

	"However,", Paul continued with his perennial
habit of carrying out a verbal conversation with
himself, "before we proceed willy-nilly with whatever
we're doing here, let's take a minute or two and
examine what we know and what we think we know...
y'know, just make damn sure we've got all out duck in a
row and we aren't making a wrong assumption about these
heels and what the seem to be doing to this body of
our's...

	"Okay!  So, unless you're either dreaming or
having some rather farfetched hallucinations Paul, it
would appear that these pointy toed devils - as
incredulous as it sounds - are invested with some sort
of magical potential that allows them to... I guess you
could say... re-proportion not only themselves, but
also, the feet that they are being place upon ...
y'know, so that they have the ability to... shall we
say... accommodate anyone's feet who attempts to try
them on.

	"And that's only the half of it!

	"Once on, they begin to... for a lack of a better
way to put it... bring about a swift feminine re-
sculpturing to whatever leg they happen to reside upon.

	"Also, though I think it prudent for me to play it
safe and be more than a little bit skeptical about this
particular supposition of mine... y'know, when it come
to any and all forms of continued experimentation... it
would seem that once this magically induced feminine
re-sculpturing... or, whatever you want to call it...
has run its' course... some sort of mystical clock
kicks in and starts marking time so that once the
spiked heel is finally removed, the reverting process
is delayed... or, I guess you could say... kept in
abeyance... y'know, until a like amount of time
passes...

	"Alright!  That brings us to consider the next
question, with that question being: what will happen
should I don both shoes at the same time?  Will the
feminization process continue to its' logical
conclusion; re-sculpturing my whole, entire body and
turning me into a friggin' woman?

	"Or, will it only affect my lower anatomy...
y'know, turning me into a female from... shall we
say... waist downwards?

	"I guess we won't know until we give it a try, now
will we?

	"However... though I have nothing but a wild assed
guess to base this on... my gut feeling is: should I
allow the process to run its' course, it'll completely
re-vamp this body of mine; turning me into a full
fledged and - I can only assume - fully functional
member of the opposite sex.

	"That brings me to my next question.  Should these
shoes turn me into a full fledged and fully functional
female... y'know, physically... will they also bring
about a shift in my mental make-up... y'know, in
effect, quashing this very healthy male libido of mine
while at the same time, investing me with a woman's
very distinct perspective...

	"Damn!  I sure as hell wish these bad boys had
come with some sort of instruction manual!

	"Hey!", Paul, who was even then turning his
attention to the shoe box which had contained the
heels, exclaimed, "Maybe... just maybe... they did!

	Checking, re-checking and than, on the off chance
he might have missed something, he made a third and
thorough re-checked of the shoe box, bag and even went
so far as to read and re-read the sale slip, only to
come up with nothing that even so much as hinted at the
magical aspect of the heels, much less directions for
their use or even a timely word or two of caution, a
somewhat perturbed Paul Meadows reared back and aired a
healthy, hardy and heart felt, "Sh... it!

	"Wouldn't you just know it!  Nothing!  Meaning...
I going to be operating in the proverbial dark!

	"Hell!  Given the way my luck's been going here of
late, these high heels might be right out of Rod
Sterling's Twilight Zone and my sorry ass might just
end up all friggin' girlifed!  Y'know, like
permanently!  Y'know, with no friggin' way back to this
present maleness of mine!"

	Taking a swig of scotch to re-enforced his
decision to continue, Paul, who generally wouldn't have
considered himself much of a risk taker, was so
intrigued with the diversion that heels presented,
figured, "What the hell!  Since I've got nothing better
to do tonight than sit in this room and watch re-runs,
I might as well dicker around with these heels some
more... y'know, just to see what in the hell happens...

	"However...", he had given some additional thought
to the matter and had come up with a strategy as how to
incrementally proceed with continued experimentation
with respect to heels and how they affected his
physical deportment, "I'm not going to be so foolish as
to throw caution to the wind.  I'm going to take it
slow and easy.  One small step - So to speak! - at a
time..."

	So saying, a slightly apprehensive and extremely
curious Paul Meadows, starting with his left foot and
proceeding directly to his right, donned the spiked
heels.

	Craning his head downwards, Paul was rendered
spellbound as the heel engendered femininity flowed so
gracefully and delectable up both of his lower
appanages; re-sculpting them into the most sensual and
seductive legs that ever troubled and beguiled a man's
eye.

	Once again, even as the transsexualization process
took hold, Paul's dirty old man aspiring libido kicked
in.  However, long before his penis could begin to rise
to the occasion, it and its' corresponding testicle
sacks were gone; supplanted by the slicking crease of
the multiple lip folds of a clitoris equipped, vaginal
orifice.  Then, even as that realization set in that he
was at that precise moment in time - gynecology
speaking - a card carrying member of the fairer sex,
Paul, in quick succession, felt his hips splay; his
waist constrict; his tummy flatten and his torso take
on a very eye-pleasing girlish tapper.

	Then, just as he became aware of the fact that his
chest was a becoming a tad bit more convex than had
been but a moment before, Paul, though he found that he
was extremely reticent to do so, stuck to his game
plan.  Calling on every ounce of his will power, Paul,
riding rough shod over his billowing curiosity as to
how he might look as a full blown piece of feminine
topography, forced himself to reach down and quickly
pluck the high heels from off of his feet.

	Due to the fact that the transsexualizing process
had never reached a state of quiescence, as it had when
it had completed the process of sexually re-vamping one
or another of his legs, Paul's body began to revert to
its' former maleness within seconds of the spiked
heels' removal.  Within moments, Paul had his beer
belly and love handles back.  Short thereafter, his
manhood.

	It was only when both of his lis legs were about
halfway through the rigmarole of returning to their
natural, muscular, hirsuted re-structuring, did Paul
belatedly become cognizant of the fact that it hadn't
only been his body that had undergone the heel induced
feminization process.  So too had his jockey shorts.
Though his attention had been focused elsewhere, given
the massive, if not mind blowing changes that his
physiognomy had been undergoing at the time, Paul had
only been peripheral aware that his skivvies had been
caught up in the feminization process as well.
Concurrent with the changes that had taken place in and
around the area of Paul's primary sexual apparatus, the
very same changes that had turned his manly prick and
associated equipment into a female's delectable little
crevasse creased pussy, his jockey shorts, caught up in
the spell's magical transmutations as they no doubt had
been, in short shift of an order, had been
transmogrified into a scanty pair of low slung, white
satin, bikini briefs.

	As with many things, that realization had a domino
effect, triggering yet another.

	Once Paul registered the fact that his jockey
shorts had, for a brief interim, been a pair of male
libido enticing, male libido torquing, satinized bikini
briefs, he got the distinct impression that his T-shirt
had begun to be affected by the heels' magical
influence as well.  He remembered looking down and
feasting his gaze upon a bare midriff.  A very feminine
looking bare midriff.  A midriff that, under ordinary
circumstances, his T-shirt should have handily
concealed.

	Also, though he couldn't be sure, what with
everything that was transpiring at the time, he had,
just prior to his removal of the heels, the hazy
impression that his upper torso had felt unusually
constricted, as if his T-shirt had molded itself
tightly about his femininely tapper upper torso.

	"Wow!  That's something!", he exclaimed, having
taken another swig of scotch, "Unless I miss my guess
here... had I allow the process to continue, I'd ended
up with a new set of boobs, trust up in their own,
handy dandy white satin bra!

	"That's kind of nifty to know!  Y'know, just in
the off chance I decide to go whole hog and see exactly
what kind of woman these high heels turn me into!

	"I mean... if that is I do decide to take the
plunge... y'know, and let the transsexualization
process run it course... should I opt to go out on the
town sometime in the far distant, unforeseeable
future... y'know, as a woman... it would seem that all
I might have to do... y'know, to deck myself out in
women's clothing is to get dressed... y'know, as a
man... and then don the heels and let them do the dirty
work!

	"I mean... though I could be way off base here...
if the heels are going to change my skivvies into a set
of women's undies... then... it stands to reason that
there might be a fair to midldin' chance that they
might do likewise with whatever clothes I might happen
to be wearing when I put them on..."

	Having already made the decision to take the
experiment to the next plateau, Paul, desiring to have
a better overall view of the physical re-sculpturing
process so that he could best gauge when to once again
remove the pumps and there by trigger his return to his
normal, male physiognomy, prudently opted to relocate
himself.  Picking up the heels from where they
haphazardly lay strewn upon the carpet and placing them
in one hand, Paul used his free hand to acquire the
closest one of the room's two ladder-backed chairs and
proceed to carry it and the heels to the rather
confined, sink and closet equipped vestibule; the very
same vestibule that granted the room's occupant or
occupants access to the bathroom proper, for there, on
the outside of the bathroom door was mounted, via the
use of a half a dozen or so of those nifty, little,
plastic, screw-in doodads, a somewhat makeup smeared
and scuffed full length dressing mirror.

	Placing the spiked heels nonchalantly upon the
sink's somewhat spacious counter top, so that they sat
immediately alongside of the leather valise containing
his shaving tackle, Paul took a brief moment to make
doubly sure that he had properly aligned the chair, so
as to optimize his ability to thoroughly monitor the
progressive feminization and subsequent return to
masculinity that his body would, in short order, be
undergoing.  Seating himself, Paul took another moment
out to scoot the chair first forward and then backwards
a time or two.  Then, when he was completely satisfied
that he had achieve the optimum vantage point from
which to view the results of the next phase of his
experimentation efforts, he reached over and procured
the heels.

	Acting without hesitation or reservation, but not
without a degree of internalized trepidation, Paul once
again donned the stiletto heeled, black opera pumps,
which in their turn, immediately initiated the male to
female transsexualization the process.  Paul, situated
as he was in the proverbial cat-bird seat, was in awe,
rendered spellbound by the changes that were being
enacted on his body.

	Seeing was one thing.  Believing - quite another.

	Yet the evidence was irrefutable.  The heels that
shouldn't have fit - did.

	And more to the point, a body that was in no way,
shape or form female prior to donning the heels, was
quickly and uniformly becoming about as female as a
female body could ever hope to be.

	Paul was rendered flabbergasted as he sat there,
intently watching his jockey shorts fluidly
transmogrify into a scandalously cut pair of male
libido torquing bikini briefs; knowing, with a sheer
and utter certainty, that beneath their satin
sleekness, lay the veed swath of vaginal hair, where in
was cozily nestled that new little maiden head of his.

	Armed with the foreknowledge that distraction
could be his undoing and that if he wasn't extremely
careful this time out, he could screw up royally and
allow the feminization process to continue - unabated -
to its' logical conclusion.

	In other words, Paul was well aware of the fact
that if he didn't exercise extreme caution, he could
end up a body that was the culmination of the re-
sculpturing process.

	And since he wasn't ready to take the final plunge
into unmitigated womanhood as yet, Paul, who was hoping
against hope to get a better look at those newly
developing chest mellows of his during the first few
moments of the retrograde phase of this particular
experiment of his, rode rough shod of his curiosity as
he staunchly affixed his gaze on his Adam's apple;
knowing that its' disappearance would be the single for
him to loose the heels on, what he had come to termed
in his own mind, a pretty damn quick bases.

	Peripherally aware that his chest was developing
an ample set of highly sensitized mammary protrusions
and that his T-shirt had satinized itself and was well
on the way to becoming a full fledged brassiere, Paul
struggled hard against the urge to have a look-see and
it was a very prudent thing that he did so.  Had he
lost the battle; had he looked, these no two ways about
it.  Even though he was more of a legman than a
breastman, it's pretty much a given that he would have
been distracted.  And had he been distracted, given the
steady progression of the feminization process he was
undergoing, it's a given: Paul would have ended up with
a body that was - Without a doubt! - the full
embodiment of womanhood.

	Paul also understood that hesitation, like
distraction, was a thing to be avoided at all cost.
Armed with that knowledge, and fighting hard against
the urge to grope the livin' shit out of feminizing
self, Paul had his hands posed in the ready position,
rest lightly on the outward arch of his seductively re-
sculptured calf muscles.  Then, just as his Adam's
apple gave the first inkling of its' demise, Paul went
into actions, running his hands down the back of his
lower legs and flipping the heels from off of his feet
in one fluid and succinct motion.

	Immediately following the extremely well executed
and fluid act of divesting himself of the rather
spiffy, pointy toed, spiked heeled feminizers, Paul,
knowing that he had but a moment or so to achieve what
he dearly desired to achieve, reached up and, cupping
the underside of those bra housed, and amply distended
mammary protrusions of his, he gave then a quick,
thumb-flicking, titty tweaking accompanied jostle or
two before he regrettable felt them begin to loose
their conical mass and distinctly feminine definition.

	Acting promptly, so as to gain as much time for
himself as he could, Paul took his right hand and
thrust it, none to gently mind you, underneath the
satinized waist band of the bikini briefs that his
pubic regions were, for the time being, so sensually
concealed beneath.  As tenderly as he could manage
under the oppressive time restraints he found himself
contending with, Paul, employing both his index and
middle fingers as probes, began, what could only be
described as a cursory exploratory survey of that soon
to be eradicated, love-juice lubricated, crevasse
crease of his.

	Working back to front, Paul tentatively, if not
somewhat teasingly, drew his minutely splayed fingers
along the parallel ridge lines of his vagina's primary
lip folds.  Then, returning to the rearmost apex of
that new, nifty, and soon to be supplanted little
vagina of his, Paul, making double sure that he didn't
go to deep, inserted the tip of his middle finger and
began to draw it forward hoping that he could, without
a lot searching, locate the elusive prominence of his
clitoral protrusion.

	"Shit!", he exclaimed as his middle finger came
into direct contact with what - he presumed - had been,
but a moment or so before, the orgasmic inducing nub of
his clitoris.

	Paul fumed aloud as he withdrew his hand.
"Wouldn't you just know it!  Just when I'm about to
find out just how sensitive a woman's clit is, damn if
the friggin' thing isn't well on its' way to changing
back into my old trustworthy pecker!

	"Okay, pal!", he said to himself as he rose to his
feet on a pair of legs that were still a whole hell of
a lot more feminine than they were masculine and began
to wobbly re-trace his path back to the wall mounted
dresser and the glass of scotch he had deposited there.
"I guess we've arrived at Shit-or-get-off-the-pot Time!

	"So...", he continued as picked up the glass and
proceeded to polish of the remainder of its' contents,
"...I guess the question is: do we go for gold?  Or, do
we do the smart thing, the prudent thing and get
ourselves dressed and go out and get us something to
eat?  Y'know, because as intriguing as this shit with
the heels is, Paul, you've got to admit: you're
starting to get hungry as hell!

	"Besides...", he continued to verbally debate the
issue with himself, "...should you elected to go whole
hog the next time out, you have to take into
consideration that you might well be buying yourself a
one way ticket to femininity.

	"Meaning... me buckco!  There's no guarantee what
so ever that you'll get this masculinity of your's
back.  You could - Perish the thought! - end up a woman
for the rest of your friggin' life!

	"Yes...", Paul, a loving and faithful husband, not
to mention, a staunch heterosexual, who never - Ever! -
so much as entertained even one single, solitary
fantasy about what it might be like to function for a
time as a female, found himself forced to conceded that
there was always a chance of that eventuality,
"...there is that possibility... however remote and
unlikely that possibility might be...

	"However... my gut feeling is: that's not going to
happen.  I won't get stuck as woman.

	"I truly believe that once I remove the heels, and
an appreciable amount of like time passes, I will
revert back to being the man I've always been...
y'know, much as I have been doing all along.

	"Beside... if the worst case scenario does occur
and I end up having to live out the rest of my life as
a friggin' woman... though I'll grant you it'll be one
hell of an adjustment... involving a whole lot of shit
that'll drive me right up the friggin' wall... I'll
survive!  Though it won't be easy, I'll do what you've
always done!  I'll make the best out of bad situation!

	"Yeah... but what about Janice?  How is she going
to handle it if you end up all friggin' girlified?

	"I mean... you know  - Sure as shootin'! - that
Janice isn't going to ever countenance any sort of
lesbian tomfoolery!  Y'know, involving the two of us!

	So, if you're thinking what I think your thinking,
you can plum forget that crazy, wild assed notion of
your's right now... you lame brained idiot, you!
Because, as you well know, it ain't never going to
happen!  Not in a hundred...  Not in a thousand years!

	"As mad and as pissed off as she is likely to
be... y'know, should you have to bite the bullet and
appraise her with the sad and awful fact that you gone
and gotten yourself into such a mell of a hess in the
first friggin' place... knowing her... knowing how much
she loves and cares for you... y'know, when you don't
deserve it... there's a better than even chance that
she might just stand by you.  Y'know, to help you deal
with all the shit that's involved with being a woman.

	"But,", Paul optimistically countered his
misgivings, quashing any further debate surrounding the
ominous worst case scenario of ending up stuck as a
woman as he did so, "that ain't never going to happen!

	"You'll see!   Everything - And I do mean
everything! - will be fine!  You'll only remain in a
feminized state during the time you are wearing the
heels and for a like amount of time once you take them
off."

	Though completely unaware of the fact, there was
no argument, no matter how well founded, that was going
to deter Paul Meadows from completing what he had
started.  Succinctly put, he was immersed within what
some might call the Borg Conundrum, where resistance
was, without a doubt, futile.

	It was a compulsion that had prompted Paul to buy
the heel to begin with and it would be a compulsion,
albeit a subliminal one, that would compel him to go
the distance with the heels.  Or, to put that another
way, when it came to the matter involving the magically
infused, feminizing, stiletto heeled pumps, Paul was no
longer the master of his fate.  The heels were.

	So, given the fact that his hunger was about to
have a hissy fit, demanding appeasement in the worst
friggin' way, Paul made a deal with both himself and
his stomach.  He would put the heels on and allow then
to complete the process of changing him into a woman.
Then, once full feminized, he would wait a full five
minutes.  No more.  No less.  Then, once the allotted
time had run its' course, Paul would remove the heels,
triggering, he dearly hoped and prayed, the restoration
of his masculinity.

	After that, once his manhood was fully restored,
Paul would get dressed and go out and get himself
something to eat.

	"Okay!", he resignedly quipped, as he reached up
and began to remove his T-shirt.  "Decision's made!",
he was emphatic.  "I'm going to give 'em a go...
y'know, just to see what kind of woman those bad boys
are going make out of me...

	"However...", Paul continued, as he went through
the physical gyrations required to remove his jockey
shorts, "...this time out... let's do it in the nude...
y'know, just so that I can get... what you might
call... an unobstructed view of my all new and
thoroughly feminized self..."

	Then, Paul, aware that he wouldn't have a clear
view of the night table and the digital clock/radio
which resided upon it, blocked as it would be by the
room's closet alcove, prudently took another moment to
pick up his trusty, handy dandy divers watch and, as he
made his way back to the chair and the discarded heels,
proceeded to strap it securely about his left wrist.
With a deep, purging breath, a breath that clearly
indicated his resolve in the matter, Paul, having piked
up the heels, seated himself before the mirror and,
without any hesitation what so ever, starting with his
left foot, proceeded to put them on.

	Once again, Pauls Meadows was thoroughly
captivated; rendered sublimely spellbound as the
feminization process flowed ever so intriguingly, ever
so gracefully upwards, re-sculpturing his body into
that of a unmitigated temptress.  Thirty second or so
after he had donned the spike heeled opera pumps, Paul
bid a fond adieu to his manhood and a gregarious Hi,
how are you, to the neat little veed swath of pubic
hairy that clearly proclaimed the fact that he his
loins were undeniable that of a full fledged female.
Shortly there after, his hips, waist and tummy
underwent their own feminine brand of reapportioning.
Fifteen or so second after that, Paul's libido, which
was still as manly entrenched as it had ever been, went
into over-drive, as he sat their, lasciviously gawking
at a matched set of the most enticing mammary
protrusions that ever troubled a dirty, if not,
lecherous old man in the offing's eyes.

	And speaking of eyes, a few seconds after his
Adam's Apple went the way of the dodo, Paul was
rendered completely and unquestionably flat out
flabbergasted as the two azure blue orbs of his became,
in the flowing of an instance, the twin centerpieces of
the most angelically, the most femininely exquisite
visage he had ever - in his whole, entire life -
beheld.  Unquestionable, had they been anyone else's
eyes but his own, Paul would have been rendered utterly
beguiled and captivated by them.  As it was, it took
every ouch of his will power and then some to break
free of their compelling, seductive and thoroughly
femininely couched magnetism.

	Then, just as he was, on a peripheral level of his
awareness, becoming cognizant of massive strands of
hair - his hair - that were, at the time, miraculously
billowing out of his scalp, only to cascade down over
the nap of his aristocratic re-sculptured neck, and
from there, over those luscious new shoulders of his
and free fall, veil like, down the center run of that
scrumptious and alluring newly restructured back of
his, Paul looked to his hands and the startling
transformation that they were even then undergoing.
>From meaty, calloused and scared ham hocks to
gracefully dextrous, long nailed and fetchingly
manicured, his hands became undeniable those of a
woman, a young, attractive, twenty something woman.

	"Holy shit!", Paul, who was completely taken aback
with his new, and ultra feminized physiognomy,
incredulously exclaimed.

	"Would you just look at me!

	"I'm beautiful!  Balls to the walls - beautiful!"

	Then, upon the realization that the application of
the term 'beautiful' had been nothing more than a gross
understatement, Paul, in a voice that was both delicate
in its' timbre and velvety sexy in its' intonations,
corrected his herified self.

	"No!  Beautiful ain't going to cut it!"

	"If I must say so myself... I'm gorgeous!

	"Simply gorgeous...

	"Shit!", Paul, realizing that he had come within a
hair's breath of committing a grievous faux pas that
could, if not attend to immediately, have serious
consequences, took the time out to mark his heel shod
stint as the embodiment of a femme fatale by rotating
the bezel of his divers watch to indicate the closet
minute to the culmination of his full
transsexualization.

	"Wow!  Now that's something!", Paul marveled.  "My
watch... much like my underwear... has undergone its'
own special brand of feminization!

	"I mean... it's still a divers watch!  But now
it's a ladies divers watch!  Y'know... rather than a
man's!

	"I mean... damn if it's not an almost exact
duplicate of Janice's!

	"Now that's rather nifty..."

	Then, upon the realization that his watch's
transmutation, though interesting, was far less so than
that of his own, Paul, well aware that if he stuck to
his guns, he had precious little time to fully evaluate
his new and ultra feminized physique, turned back to
the mirror and the image that was so tantalizing
resplendent upon its' silverized surface.

	"This is fantastic!  Simply fantastic!

	"These heels!  They've saddled me with the body of
a temptress and a face that borders on the angelic!

	"Bo Derek!  Cindy Crawford!  Pamalla Sue!  Step
aside!  There's a new dick teaser in town!  And,...
just so you'll know... that new, stacked and packed
dicker teaser is none other then little old,
bodaciously retrofitted me!"

	Though he dearly would have liked to enhance his
perspective by moving a smidgen or two closer to the
mirror, Paul prudently bided his time by remaining
seated; knowing, with a shear and utter certainty, that
he - as a newly ensconced she - wasn't anywhere near
ready to tackle the arduous task of trying to navigate
about his motel room in a pair of persnickety
treacherous, stiletto thin, high heeled opera pumps, no
matter how magical those persnickety treacherous,
stiletto thin, high heeled opera pumps might well have
been.

	Time check.  Two minutes.  Paul had three minutes
to go before he reached down and removed the heels.

	"Shit!", a very horny and therefore, sexually
frustrated Paul Meadows complained.

	"The one thing I'd like to do right now is to
grope the living shit out of these new sexual
accouterments of mine and - Damn it all to hell and
back! - it's the one  friggin' thing I can't do...
y'know, for fear of getting caught up in the act of
playing a game of titty tweak and grab ass with this
new and thoroughly bodacious bod of a body of mine...

	"I mean... were I not extremely careful... were I
to give in to this raging... what I still tend to
believe is a very manly libido driven horniness of
mine... y'know, and start finger-fucking myself... I
could easily loose track of time... and as a result of
that, I could remain a female for a lot longer than I
had originally planned...

	"So... since I don't want to do that... y'know,
until I find out whether or not I'm going to revert to
being a man again... y'know, once I remove these dick
teaser specials I'm wearing... I guess I'm going to
have to forego that aspect of my experimentation for
the time being.

	"Maybe later... after I after I get back from
going out and grabbing something for dinner, we'll have
another go-around with these heels and then - I
promise! - you can experiment till your heart's
content..."

	Second time check.  Three and a half minutes had
passed.  A very feminized Paul Meadows had a minute and
a half still to go.

	Curious as to how that new vagina of his looked,
Paul, in a very unlady like fashion, took his hands and
with an admonishment to himself to, "Watch it, pal!
Don't go taking liberties with yourself that you
shouldn't ought take for the right here and now!",
placed them on the inside runs of their respective
thighs and splayed his legs wide apart.

	"Now would you look at that!

	"Paul... me boy-o!", he said, trying, but failing
miserable, to adopt an Irish accident.  "Guess what!
You've got a vagina!  A cute, cuddly, little pussy all
for your very own!

	"And later..." he continue in a slightly sarcastic
tone of voice, "...if you're a good little boy and eat
all your veggies... maybe I'll let you dicker around
with it..."

	Paranoia was setting in, demanding another time
check.

	Four minutes.  Paul had but one minute to go.

	"You know something... as fabulous as you look as
brunette, it's a damn shame that these spiked heels
didn't go whole hog and turn you into a friggin' blonde
bombshell... y'know, because if there's one thing that
always been a perennial favorite of your's, it's blonde
bombshells...

	"I mean... you're always fantasizing about 'em!"

	Then, having just said that, Paul became aware
that something was happening to those new, full bodied
tresses of his.

	Incredulous as it sounds, they were lightening,
going from a rich and glossy chestnut hue to a radiant,
golden glory, dovetailing nicely to coloration of the
women who provocatively frolicked within his sexually
couched, sexually concocted day dreams.

	"This is incredible!  Absolutely incredible!  I'm
becoming a blonde!  These heels are actually turning me
into a friggin' blonde bombshell to end all blonde
bombshells!  One that by far surpasses anything I ever
- in my whole entire life - fantasied about!

	Glancing at his watch, Paul exclaimed, "Shit!
Damn near six minutes have come and gone!  I've had
these heels on for almost a whole friggin' minute
longer than I had planned to!

	"Better attend to getting them off of myself right
away!  Y'know, before something else crops up to
distracted  me!"

	And he did just that.

	In the next moment or so, Paul had those bad boys
off of his herified self and up on the counter.

	Then, postulating that he had, at the very lest, a
full six minutes before he began to revert back to his
former manly self, if, that is - Perish the thought! -
he did revert back to his formerly manly self, Paul, a
very horny, a very narcissistic Paul Meadows, rose and
taking a half a step towards the mirror, began to
fondle and caress the livin' shit out of his herified
self.

	Though well appraised that a woman's body tended
to be a lot more sexually sensitive than a man's, Paul
was still unprepared for just how sexually sensitive
that new, femininely retrofitted body of his was.  His
titties, and the enlarged areolas surrounding them had
been rendered supersensitive, so much so that a simple,
self-induced, swirling, thumb caress triggered a
torrent of sexual shivers, which in turn, up his
horniness quotient considerably.  Then, finding himself
at a totally loss to fight the sensual and seductive
enticements that that new bod of body afforded him,
Paul, embroiled as he was in his narcissistic pursuit,
upped the ante considerably, as he freed up one of his
hands and, using the delicately long fingernails of it
to trace the path, began to run it slowly, teasingly,
up along the inner run of his thigh.

	A moan, a deep throated and undeniable feminine
moan, a moan which clearly indicated the fact that
Paul, as the physical female he had become, was
beginning to experience the excruciating pleasures that
had the accumulative effect of engendering the joyous
rush of pre-orgasmic ecstasy, escaped his lust-
moistened and sensually quivering lips.  More moans
followed, garnished well with the occasional whimpers
and squeals that heralded the precursory rapture of
pure, unadulterated delight.

	Getting into the swing of things, Paul, who knew
that time was fleeting, further upped the ante of his
narcissistic tinkerings by inserting the fingernail
surmounted nub of his pussy-probing middle finger
within the hindmost section of that new crevasse crease
of his and began, in a most excruciating and tortuous
manner, to slowly and enticingly draw it forward.
Drawing on the experience of years, Paul, who was, to
his wife's way a thinking, an adept artisan in the
intricate and delicate art of clitoral manipulation,
brought his finger forward and, with and unnecessary
folderol or fanfare, began to expertly tweak the livin'
shit out of that orgasmic inducing little vaginal nub
of his.

	To his utter chagrin and abject dismay, Paul found
that time doesn't just fly when your having fun.  It up
and disintegrates.

	Just when he felt like he was getting into the
swing of things, Paul, in a delayed reaction, Chinese
Fire Drill sort of way, became alarmingly cognizant of
the fact that the sensitivity level of those new and
improve titty-whitties of his was falling off by leaps
and bounds.  Then, following immediately on the heels
of that horniness preempting awareness of his, he felt
those magnificently ample mammaries of his femininely
deportment begin to fluidly loose mass and definition;
flattening out in due course, becoming in the process,
a moderately hirsuted and distinctly manly proportioned
chest.

	"Shit!", he dejectedly muttered.

	"Shit!  Shit!  Shit!  Shit!  Shit!

	"Damn!", he contritely barked, as he felt that
little nub of a clit of his begin to elongated and form
itself into a very infantile sized penis-emulating
protrusion.  "I was well on my way to my first orgasmic
interlude as a woman and wouldn't you just know it!
Regression kicks in and lucky old me gets the old rug
of sexual satisfaction pulled right out from under
him!"

	Then, after a chagrin induced second thought on
the matter, coupled with the realization that the penis
he was being re-equipped with was blood ridged, prime
and ready to carry on with the pleasurable task of
getting his rocks of, Paul, acting on the urgings of
his wanning horniness and the advice of his
proctologist, took the matter into his own hands as he
entered the bathroom, faced the bath tub and proceed to
whack himself off; all the while fanning the flames of
his frantically rekindled horniness by fantasizing
about his male self getting it on with his female self.

	Seconds later, even as his spent semen began to
congeal on tiles of the bath tube enclosure, Paul took
a moment or so out to take stock of his re-masculated
self.  Then, once he had reassured himself that
everything seem to be copacetic and that he was once
again the man he was supposed to be, he took another
moment out to clean up the mess he had just made and
then, picking up the spiked heels as went, passed out
into his motel room proper and, under the persistent
urgings of a to long denied appetite, having tossed the
heels onto his bed, proceed on to get dressed.

	Forced to spend a good portion of his working week
decked out in conservative business suits, Paul,
whenever and wherever he could, elected to spend his
free time in clothing that was not only comfortable
casual, but, as far as he himself was concerned, more
representative of his true nature.  Selecting a pair a
wash worn jeans, a dark blue bulky knit sweater and a
pair of ruggedly corrugated, boot-soled, moccasin-like
deck shoes, Paul was dress and out of his room in a
matter of minutes.

	Aware that the prior episode with the heels had
put him in a rather frazzled, if not highly
contemplative state of mind, Paul prudently came to the
conclusion that, for the time being, driving was out of
the question.  Climbing behind the wheel of a car, he
realized, just wasn't the smartest or safest thing for
him to do.

	Fact is, as Paul grudgingly had to admit to
himself that in his present, rather befuddled
condition, driving could be down right hazardous.

	Therefore, if he was going to get something to
eat, he would have to select some place that was well
within walking distance.  The motel's restaurant, while
fine and dandy for breakfast, didn't quite appeal to
him.  Neither did the several fast food joints in the
immediate area.  Paul was hungry and because he was, he
wanted food that was a little bit more substantial than
a slopped together cheeseburger and a bag of either
over-cooked or under-cooked fires.  So, given all that,
Paul, after a little indecision, coupled with some
gastronomic vacillation, decided that he could go for a
good steak and that narrowed the restaurant selection
process down considerable.

	Having been in area several times in the past few
years for various seminars and high tech trade shows,
Paul knew that he could get a fairly decently cooked
steak dinner at either one or another of two places
which were both well within casual walking distance.
One was a family owned joint, that while a little
pricy, was well worth the wait that eating there
usually entailed.  Trouble was, Paul was really hungry
and because he was, he, already salivating for the
peanuts he would munch on as he sat there waiting for
his dinner to be served, opted for the western styled
steak house that was just across the main drag and down
about half, what one might term, a rather ponderously
lengthy city block.

	With that decision arrived at, a very pre-occupied
and therefore, a very distracted, detached and
extremely addled brained Paul Meadows began to make his
way across the motel's parking lot.  Luckily for Paul,
while he wasn't paying much attention to things that
were transpiring about him, his guardian angle surely
must have been, for just as he was about to step into
the path of an oncoming car, who's driver, it would
seem, was suffering from a distraction all his own, for
some inexplicable reason or another, Paul gave into an
urgent and not to be denied impulse to look up.  And it
was a damn good thing that he did, for recognition set
in, allowing him just enough time to step out of the
path of the on rushing car, a mere second or so before
it would have careened into him.

	"Asshole!", Paul exclaimed, not sure if he meant
that retort himself or the car's driver.

	"Look, pal!", he muttered to himself under his
breath, "I know you're per-occupied with all that just
happened!  And you have every right to be!  However...
let's not be so damn pre-occupied as to become
oblivious to everything else!  It can be as dangerous
as hell out here!  So, please!  I implore you!
Exercise a modicum of caution!  Y'know, so later on...
after you've eaten... you can go back to your motel
room and have another go-around with those high heeled
dick teaser specials of your's!  Alright?"

	Without any other mishap or near mishap occurring,
a still highly pre-occupied Paul Meadows arrived at the
steak house and, after a short wait, was dully seated,
per his request, in a booth that was off the beaten
path and as far away from the kitchen hullabaloo as was
possible.

	Under other circumstances, Paul would have enjoyed
the hell out of the dinner.  As it was, he was to
distracted by the memory of recent events to allow
himself the pleasure of thoroughly enjoying the meal he
had ordered.  No matter how hard he tried - And it
should be known that he really gave it his best shot. -
Paul couldn't get the image of himself as a girl out of
his mind.  Time and again, he would purge that libido
torquing image of himself as a balls to walls blonde
bombshell, only to have it doggedly re-instate itself a
moment or so later.

	Paul, who, much to his wife's consternation, had
always had an eager eye for the ladies, couldn't
believe the catty diversion he found himself, every now
and again, engaging in.  As he sat there, sequestered
in that booth of his, surreptitiously scanning the
crowd for what he kiddingly referred to as
'collectables', he found himself playing a tawdry game
of stare and compare, in which he would mentally
measured the allurement quotient of this would be
'collectible' candidate of his up against the damn near
omnipresent memory of himself, as the bodacious, blonde
haired, amply endowed, pussy equipped, femme fatale
that he had become as a direct result of his having
donned those stiletto heeled bad boys of his.

	Also, running concurrent with that little, catty,
mentally couched exercise of his, Paul, very
uncharacteristically, found himself wondering how he,
as a she, might look decked out in some of the more
appealing ensembles that some of the female patrons
were wearing.

	Oddly enough, Paul, who had never - Ever! -
entertained such strange notions prior to that very
evening, remained completely oblivious to just how
bizarre and out of character such thoughts were for
him.  Though he remained very much the female fixated
heterosexual that he had always been, and in an odd
turn of events, perhaps even more so, the business with
the high heels and the physical changes they had been
somehow mysteriously enacted on his body, had, in a
strange and subliminal sort of way, altered his
perspective substantially, allowing him the mental
leeway to engage in such outrageously lewd and
lascivious ponderings.

	Also added into that rather convoluted,
narcissistic mix of Paul's was the rather compelling
and reoccurring speculation of just how spectacular his
wife Janice was going to look once he somehow found a
way to cajoled her into trying the spiked heeled pumps
on for him.

	'After all,', he internally mused, 'if those bad
boys did what they up and did to me, I can't begin to
imagine what they'll do for her.  However, I've got to
admit that it'll be a real hoot to find out!'

	Problem was, Paul's wife had a thing about shoes
with heels over two and a half inches high.  She
thought that they made her look to tall and therefore,
she was adamant about not ever wearing them.

	That meant that Paul was in for one hell of an up
hill battle when he got home, because, come hell or
high water, Paul knew that he wouldn't rest until he
got her to at least try them on.  Once he did, once
Janice underwent, what he presumed would be, a most
startling, most fetching, and above all, a most
flattering physical upgrade, that would, he suspected,
render her gorgeous as all get-out, Paul had no doubt
that his next problem would be persuading his wife to
remove them.

	So, given all of that, when Paul wasn't engaged in
the narcissistic, libido torquing contemplation of
himself as a stiletto heel shod temptress, or the catty
game of she-nice-but-she-can't-even-begin-to-hold-a-
candle-to-me, or for that matter, speculating on how he
- as a she - might look decked out in some other
woman's clothing, Paul was busily trying to concoct an
approach that would have the best chance of succeeding
in convincing his wife to forego all her complaining
and her resistive nay-saying endeavors and just try the
damn heels on for him.

	Or to put that another way, Paul's mental
processes were about as jumbled and multifaceted as one
could ever hope to imagine, with one thought careening
wildly off another, spinning recklessly, whirligig-
like, into the oblivion of yet another contemplation
and triggering two suppositions in the process of
effervescently imploding in upon itself.

	No wonder Paul was so pre-occupied.  He was
dealing with a lot of heavy duty shit.

	'You know what's really strange?', he thought to
himself as he began the return trip to his hotel room.
'Though I have to admit that I've always been a little
curious when it comes to women and how their bodies
respond to sexual stimulation, I've never - Ever! -
been curious enough to have ever entertained the notion
of what it would be like to be one... y'know, just to
see for myself if the 'Big O' of female orgasm is all
that it's cracked up to be!

	'I mean... such a speculation was, until the
events of this very evening, an abhorrent anathema to
me.

	'Now, though... as absurd as it sounds... I find
that I'm chomping at the bit to get back to my room and
have another go at the heels...'

	And that's exactly what Paul did when he returned
to his room.  Having already come to the much self-
debated decision during his return trek from the steak
house to keep the clothes he was wearing on, as an
additional experiment to see just what in the world the
heels would make of them during the sexually
transmogrification process, a very self-motivated and
admittedly, anticipatory keyed-up Paul Meadows entered
his room and proceed straight to its' queen sized bed
and the classic pair of black, kid leather, stiletto
heeled pumps which resided upon it.

	Sitting, Paul wasted no time at all removing the
moccasin styled deck shoes he had donned earlier.  That
was followed by a moment of indecision.  As he sat
their, holding a spiked heel in each of his hands, in
preparation to putting them on, he was perplexed by his
shocks.  Should he leave them on?  Should he take them
off?  And if he did leave them on, would the heels
accommodate them?  Or, would his socks somehow preempt
the heels' magical ability to re-size themselves?

	Paul frankly didn't know.  Didn't care.  If his
socks proved an impedance, the fix was simple.  He'd
simply remove them and then, have another go with the
heels.

	So, given all of that, Paul, who felt like he had
wasted far to much precious time already internally
debating the sock issue with his nay-saying self,
scoffed, "Shit on it!", and, starting with the left one
and moving directly to the right one, proceed to slide
those high heeled bay boys onto the semi-gnarled toes
of his awaiting feetzie-wheatzies.

	As anticipated, Paul's bulky knit socks proved to
be no impedance at all, for no sooner than the pointy
toe portion of the heels began to smoothly glide over
his manly toes, his socks began their own transition as
they steadily began to turn into suntanned hued, sheer
nylon textured, anklet-like, feminine thing-a-ma-
jiggies.  Shortly thereafter, Paul, aware that his
anatomy, from waist downwards, had become as feminine
as feminine could ever hope to be, bemusedly wondered
if those suntanned hued, sheer nylon textured, anklet-
like, feminine thing-a-ma-jiggies had remained just
that or, had they gone on to become restructured and
elongated into a full blown pair of bikini topped
pantyhose.

	And interesting question he noted to himself and
one that he would no doubt find the answer to in the
due course of time's passage.  But, as interesting a
codicil as it was, given all the other fascinating and
mind boggling shit that was going on, it wasn't
something that Paul, in the midst of his
transformation, was going to become even slightly pre-
occupied with.  Knowing full well that it would all
come out in the proverbial wash, Paul, who was
desperately trying to mentally catalogue and chronicle
all the various changes that were being enacted on his
physiognomy, but falling far short of his goal,
endeavored to focus in on the main events; events such
as the acquisition of an ample and eye-riveting set of
baby suckling certifiable, nicely conical and
unquestionably female, titty surmounted, mammary
protrusions.

	As he felt his hair beginning to lengthen into
distinctly female tresses, that in turn, flowed over
his emasculated shoulders and began to stream - so fan-
friggin'-tastically - down the middle of that
scrupulously re-sculptured back of his, Paul, curious
to find out if he was going to once again start off as
a brunette and therefore, have to make, what he had
come to think of as an augmentation wish, to obtain
blonde bombshell-hood, reached back and, grabbing a
hand full of his own hair, drew it forward for
examination.

	Blonde.  The prior augmentation had held.  Paul
was once again the full embodiment of your classic,
full breasted, honey hued blonde bombshell to end all
blonde bombshells.

	Then, before Paul allowed himself the chance to
get distracted, he, as the fully feminized she that he
had just there and then become, glanced over at the
clock/radio and made a mental note of the time.

	"Okay, pal!", Paul's sarcasm was showing, "So
you're a girl now!  What's on tap next?"

	Then, before he could arrive at an answer to that
rather pertinent question, Paul realized he had made a
boo boo.

	He was seated on the bed and while he could use
the mirror that was centered just above the wall-
mounted dresser unit to get a partial and therefore,
unsatisfying view of his newly herified self, the
mirror that he would have liked to have used, the one
that afforded him damn near a full body view of his
newly feminized physique, was the mirror mounted, via
the use of the those little plastic, screw-in do-
jiggies, on the outside surface of the bathroom door
and that, Paul was more than a little vexed to realize,
was clear across the room from his current position,
seated on the foot of the bed as he was.

	"Damn!", he fumed, glancing down at the heels that
so becomingly graced those pettily feminized made over
feetzie-wheatzies of his.  "You big dummy dunderhead
you!

	"Now, asshole!" Paul, in that new sultry, sexy
voice of his, continued to gruffly castigate himself,
"If you want to get another eye-full of the new and
femininely revamped you...  Guess what! - You short
sighted over anxious moron! - You're either going to
sit here!  Coolin' your lollies... y'know, waiting for
a considerable amount of time to pass!  Or, if you're
not up to waiting that long to get a gander of
yourself, you're going to have to bite the bullet; get
up and trudge over there... y'know, in these new and -
I'll wager! - persnickety, if not down right
treacherous stiletto heeled pumps of your's!"

	Aware that he didn't have near enough patience to
wait it out, Paul, who was apprehensive as all get out
and rightly so, given the height of the heels and a
very evident shift in his center of gravity, gingerly,
fearing a fall was imminent, wobbly struggled to his
feet.

	"Oh, shit!", a teetering to and fro Paul Meadows
pitifully exclaimed as he took those delicately
feminized hands of his and, holding them splayed out to
his sides, endeavored to better balance his herified
self.

	"I owe Janice an apology!.", he said.  "She was
right!  High heels are a real pain in the ass to get
around in!"

	Then, in the wake of a tentative, half-hearted
step-off, an attempt that was quickly aborted, an
apprehensively anxious Paul, in that new little honey
sweeten voice of his, took a second out to severely
chide his herified self.

	"Just what in the hell are you doing, pal!

	"May I remind you!  You're not a man anymore!
For all practical purposes, you're a woman!

	"So... why in the hell are you trying to walk like
the man you no longer are?

	"You've got to try walking the way a woman walks!
Y'know, like you've got to start taking itsy, bitsy,
teensy, weensy, little steps!  Y'know, and not those
big, gangling, two and a half foot strides that you're
use to taking!

	"Remember the movie 'What About Bob"!  Y'know, the
one that Bill Murry played a neurotic!  Y'know, who had
a hard time doing damn near anything and everything!

	"Remember how his shrink told him how to approach
life!  Y'know, by reducing everything down to baby
steps!

	"Well... that's what you've got to do with respect
to these high heels you're wearing!  You've got to take
baby steps!  Itsy, bitsy, teeny, weeny, little baby
steps!"

	Heeding his own advice, that's just what Paul
Meadows did.  Feeling as precarious as all get out, and
using his hands much the way a tightrope walker employs
one of those overly long balancing poles, Paul, who was
keenly aware that each step he took in the heels could
well be his undoing, gingerly, in a most unladylike
manner imaginable, made his way to the little sink and
closet equipped alcove that granted access to the
bathroom proper.

	"Shit!  Now I've got a damn chair to deal with!",
he, as a she, fumed, as he came upon the ladder backed
chair he had inadvertently left positioned neatly
tucked up and alongside of the sink's counter.

	Grabbing the back of the chair and using it much
the way someone employes one of those health aid
walkers, having tilted it rearwards so as to raise the
two foremost legs, Paul proceed to pulled it backwards
and slide it, somewhat haphazardly, off to the side, so
that it now somewhat impeded access to the hallway
door.

	Still hobbling, though not quite as much as he did
at first, Paul, who's mind was sexually out of sync
with that femininely re-sculptured bod of body of his,
mannishly made his way into the bathroom access alcove
and the full length dressing mirror that awaited him
there.

	"My, my!", he mused, getting an eye-full of  his
heel made over self in the mirror.  "If I do say so
myself... Mr. Paul Allen Meadows... there's just no two
ways about it!  As a girl... you really are a one
fantastic piece of work!

	"I mean to tell you!", Paul continue on with his
self directed comments, as he cautiously pivoted to his
left, so as to better scope out that new, breast and
rump enhanced profile of his.  "Those heels have
changed you into one bodacious piece of feminine
topography!

	"Hmmm...", Paul thoughtfully mused.  "You've also
got to admit, they did one hell of a bang-up job when
it comes to that clothing your wearing as well.

	"I mean... they've gone and feminized the livin'
shit out of it!"

	"These jeans!  They fit this new body of mine like
a friggin' glove, leaving almost nothing to the
imagination in the process!

	"I mean... even if those socks of mine did end up
getting transmogrified into a full blown pair of
pantyhose... given how tightly molded these jeans are
to this new body of mine... I'd never know!  Y'know,
without looking!"

	On examination, the bulky knit sweater that Paul
had opted for that evening had also undergone its' own
very unique, very attractive brand of dovetailing
itself to his new physical reapportionment as a member,
in exemplary standing, of the fairer sex.  Where before
the dark blue, fisherman knit sweater that had, prior
to the disembarkation point of donning the heels, hung
loosely about his upper torso, in effect, masking much
of Paul's well earned beer belly and those persnickety,
match set of love handles of his in the process, in the
aftermath of the astonishing spiked heel induced
feminization, while the sweater didn't appear to be
overly tight or constrictive in any way, shape or form,
there was no doubt over the fact that those new ample,
conical, titty surmounted, baby suckling certified
chest protrusions of his were enchantingly displayed.
Likewise, the inner tapering of his femininely
truncated lower torso, including his trim and succulent
little tummy, his tiny, effeminate waist, and last, but
far least, the sassy, upwardly splay of those enticing,
bump and grind, sock-it-to-me hips of his, were
rendered attractively, if not seductively, packaged
within the waist hugging portion of that femininely
transmogrified sweater he was so provocatively decked
out in.

	Also, Paul took note of the fact that where before
his sweater had been a uniform dark blue, it now had,
as part of its' weave, a whole slew of intricately
entwined little silver strands that, upon
intermittently surfacing - dolphin like - sparkled and
dazzled with jewel emulating radiance, whenever they
caught the prevailing light in just that certain way.

	"Yes sir re-bob!  You are a definitely and
undeniable a first class fox!  I mean... were I still a
man!  Y'know, with a dick and all!  Make no never mind
about it!  I'd be creaming in my jeans!  Y'know, like
right here and now!", Paul bemusedly exclaimed, as he
once again took those well manicured, long and lovely
nailed hands of his and, reaching upwards, cradled the
underside of those magnificent new chest melons; where
upon, he proceeded to teasingly jostle them a time or
two, tantalizing the livin' shit out of himself in the
process.

	"Wow!  Would you just look at that!  They're
absolutely magnificent!  Not only have I been fitted
out with a nifty little clit equipped pussy, but I've
got my very own, chest mounted, bra assisted,
independent suspension system!"

	Then, having caught sight of a somewhat perplexing
and inexplicable twinkling that was elusively concealed
beneath the forward, face-framing strands of that honey
sweetened and full bodied tresses of his, well aware of
the fact that his eyes, along with his delightfully
traumatized mind, might well be playing tricks on him,
Paul, a whole hell of a lot more agilely than he
himself was consciously aware of, approached the
mirror, so as to gain a closer view of his herified
self.

	"Holy shit!", he incredulously exclaimed, as his
hands came into direct contact with his earlobes and
the medium sized silver balled earrings that so
attractively skewered them.  "I know those heels are
good!  However, I had no idea they were that good!

	"I mean... not only did they change me into a
femme fatale to end all femme fatales; re-worked what I
was wearing... y'know, turning it into apparel that's
as feminine and flattering as all get-out; but... as
astonishing as it sounds... they've went so far as to
pierce these ears of mine and - For toppers! - adorned
them with a dandy set of post fitted earrings!

	"I mean to tell you!  Whomever invested these
friggin' heels of mine with magic, went all out!"

	Scrutinizing his herified self up close and
personal like he - as a she - was, revealed something
else that Paul had failed to take note of before.  He
was wearing makeup.  Lipstick!  Eye shadow!  Blush!
The works!  Enhancing, albeit in a most seductive and
subliminal fashion, the compelling angelic qualities of
his most becoming, feminine features.

	Paul's up close and personal inspection of his
newly feminized self brought something else to mind as
well.  As he was tentatively fingering his earlobes and
the pair of ball shaped, sterling silver, pierced
earrings that so demurely decorated them, he took note
of the fact that his wedding band was no where nears as
massive or as wide as it had been.  Truth be told, upon
a more detailed, yet extremely short-lived inspection,
Paul realized that his wedding band was damn near an
exact duplicate of his wife's and for some inexplicable
reason, that realization warmed the cockles of that
palpitating and narcissistically attuned heart of his.

	'A wedding ring,', Paul told his herified self,
'in this current, fully feminized condition of your's,
could prove to be an invaluable godsend.'  It could, if
he was lucky and stuck to his guns, help to extract him
from all sort of sticky wickets; involving egotistical
bastards, who felt, in their misguided and most
certainly self-delusional heart of hearts, that they
were God's gift to women and because they were, they
had every right and, in some instances, every
obligation to hit on any woman, be that woman attached
or unattached, that happened to be in their vicinity
when their lewd and lascivious libido kicked into
overdrive.

	Some men, Paul knew, would honor a wedding ring as
a symbol of a woman's fidelity.  Others, and he knew
this for a certainty, would not.  Some would take the
ring as nothing more than challenge.  An obstacle to be
overcome, analogous to a matador's red cape.

	If - and at the precise moment in time, it was a
mighty big 'IF' - Paul did reach the stage were he
might consider the possibilities of going out in the
public eye as a member of the fairer sex, he knew, with
a sheer and utter certainty, that, given how balls to
walls gorgeous he was as a woman, men were going to hit
on him.  And since they were, Paul also knew that he
was going to have to be prepared to deal with them and
their unsolicited advances.

	The wedding ring would deter some.  Doggedly
sticking to his guns would deter others.  And for those
egotistical assholes that wouldn't back off, Paul, who
had been a top notched hand-to-hand combat instructor
back in his Marine Corp days, felt confident that he
could, if backed into a proverbial corner, handle those
that could not, or would not be deterred, with a swift,
sudden and explosively delivered kick to the groin,
followed immediately by a incapacitating take-down kick
to one or another of the arrogant bastard's knees.

	Paul was emphatic.  If he every did go out in
public as a female, he wasn't going to be manhandled.
And pity the asshole who tried.  The bastard would get
his comeuppance and then some.

	Finished with the close in facial scrutiny of his
herified self, Paul, with all the feminine grace and
charm of a dancer long accustomed to performing in
towering high heels, pirouette about and, though he
remained completely oblivious to fact, fluidly and
flawlessly and without any apprehension what so ever,
retraced his steps so as to once again gain a full
bodied view of himself as a stacked and packed, twenty-
something appearing, scrumptious little dick-teaser.

	A second gracefully executed pirouette brought him
around to once again face the mirror.

	"Unless I'm way off base here... and I really,
truly don't think I am... I do believe that something
new has been added to the equation...", he suspiciously
speculated, as his mind churned, vigorously groping for
an explanation as to what that elusive 'something' of
his was.  "But what...', he was perplexed, 'I'm not
exactly sure."

	Try as he might, positive that something else
other than his body and his attire, had undergone some
sort of substantial  changed, Paul couldn't quit put
his finger on it.

	Then, as he stood there, gazing somewhat
lecherously upon his herified self and racking the shit
out of his brain for an answer to this new and pesky
quandary of his, Paul seductively and nonchalantly
shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and, in
that instant, it came to him.  His mannerism were no
longer out of sexual sync with his body.  They were no
longer mannish.  Somehow, during the short span of time
he had been consumed with the task of scrutinizing that
angelic new face of his, his mannerisms had become
decidedly and deliciously female.  He moved, he
realized, just the way a woman, and a sensual, sexy
woman at that, was reputed to move.

	The heels, he was quick to discern, no longer
presented an impediment to any sort of movement.
Rather, he derived the distinct impression that if he
wished to,  he could do damn near anything while
wearing them.  Run!  Jump!  Play a game of volleyball!
Whatever!

	As incredulous as it sounds, Paul felt as
comfortable and as confident in heels as he formerly
had in a trusty and well worn pair of sneakers.

	Then, just to put that latest supposition of his
to the test, an astonished Paul Meadows determinedly
strode briskly all about his motel room, pulling no
punches, as he skipped, jumped and tried nearly every
trick that his thoroughly bewildered mind could conjure
up that might have a chance to succeed in causing his
herified self into making a faux pax, that, in turn,
would result in his making a teetering miss-step.
Failing to even engender one little wobbling and
quickly arrested stutter-step, Paul conceded the fact
that, as far as spiked heels were concerned, he - as a
she - had been rendered, via whatever magic those
stiletto heeled wonders of his had been so cunningly
invested with, fully,  gracefully, and seductively
acclimated to them.

	So appraised, Paul elected to return to the
mirror, but as he retraced his steps, on a whim, he
took a second out to procure his latest acquisition,
with that last acquisition of his being, a handy dandy
digital camera.  Using the mirror as a sort of
backdrop, Paul, on the presumption that this might be
his one and only opportunity to do so, given that he
thought that he would almost certainly never again
engage in a mid torquing dalliance with the heels, took
a whole shit-load of pictures of his reflected image.

	Having done so, with a quick look to the
clock/radio to check the time, Paul made straight for
his laptop and began to download the images he had just
then and there taken.  Making not one, not two, but
three diskettes copies of the images of his self in
feminine form, Paul selected a few of what he thought
to be better poses and began to route them to his
portable printer.

	As he sat there, waiting upon the selected
pictures to print, Paul intermittently began to knead,
fondled and titty tweak, first one and then the other
of those new mammary chest protrusions of his.
However, as he did so, he made sure to proceed with
extreme caution.  Having already made up his mind to
take his experiment with feminization to its' logical,
orgasmic conclusion, Paul, in an all out effort to
savor every nuance of the experience, elected to keep
the horniness he had been contending with all through
out the evening at an extremely pleasurable and
intensely erotic simmer.

	That though, was a lot easier said then done,
given just how super sensitive that new bod of body of
his had become.

	Over and over and over again, Paul had to use that
well honed will power of his to cease and desist with
his self-directed fondling efforts.  And on more than
one occasion, he damn near lost it and gave into to
those admittedly foreign physical yearnings and desires
that he was beginning to experience with ever
increasing frequency, not to mention, intensity.

	"Oh, shit!", he heard his herified self gleefully
squeal, "Have these heels turned this body of mine into
one big friggin' erogenous zone?  Or... if not that...
a whole slew of little erogenous zones!  Y'know,
parceled out all over this new, bodacious body of
mine..."

	Then, when he was about half way through printing
the selected pictures of his herified self that he
wished to have a hard copy of, Paul realized that
hadn't called his wife, and that realization brought
him up short.

	"Damn!", he fumed, in a voice that lacked the
where with all to convey the sense of emotions he felt.
"Boy, was I short sighted!  Knowing what I was going to
do... knowing that I was going to try these high heeled
pumps on when I got back from dinner... I should have
called Janice first!  Y'know, before I went and got
myself all girlified!

	"I mean... I can't call her now!  Not with this
new, sexy and clearly feminine voice of mine!

	"She'd never understand!  And, I'd never - Ever! -
be able to explain it to her in a way she would!

	"Hell!,", Paul continued, having checked the time
and used it to make a mental calculation.  "Ever if I
were to take these bay boys off right this instant...
by the time I revert back to being a man again... it'll
be to friggin' late to call her tonight!

	"So... even though she insist that it isn't
necessary for me to call her every night... I guess the
best thing for me to do is to call her first thing
tomorrow morning... before she leaves for work...
y'know, just to let her know that I'm thinking of her
and catch up on what's happening on the home front..."

	All of a sudden, in the midst of his fretting
about not calling Janice, Paul became keenly aware that
his throat was as parched as all get out.

	Tap water wasn't going to cut it.  Neither, he
knew, would scotch.

	Beside, given what he was planning to do to his
herified self ere the night was over, Paul didn't want
to dull or dilute his senses by imbibing anymore
alcohol than he already had.  If he was going to
experience the Big 'O' of female orgasm for himself, he
wanted his senses to operating at an optimum level, so
that he would be able to make a clear, unbiased
delineation between what a man experiences and a what
female experiences.

	Paul, who was and old hand at being on the road,
had plenty of snacks on hand, plus several two liter
bottles of diet soda.  Trouble was, he needed ice.

	True, there was an ice machine located at the far
end of hall, in this little walled-off alcove that was
just off the landing and situated right next to the
vending machine area.  But that meant that if Paul
wanted ice for his soda, he would have to go out - As a
girl! - and get it.

	Well, though he was admittedly reluctant about
venturing out in the hallway as a full fledged member
of the opposite sex, Paul didn't have much of a choice.
His thirst need quenching in the worst way and even if
he were to remove the spiked heels, he knew that he
wouldn't be reverting to manhood for sometime to come.

	"Shit!", he bemoaned the situation.  "I guess
there's nothing for it!  I guess I'll have to go out -
Like this! - and get some ice!"

	Then, in preparation for going out, Paul, fearing
that he might, in his rather frazzled state of mind,
end up doing something really stupid, something that
would result in the humiliating misfortune of his
getting locked out of his motel room, made a double
check for that credit card sized key card that granted
him access to his lodgings.  Having thoroughly padded
his herified self down not once, but twice, Paul
realized that he didn't have the key card on him.
Neither, he noted, did he have his wallet, car keys or
other sundry pocket paraphernalia on him.  To his
chagrin, the pockets of those second skin jeans of his
were empty.

	'Odd...', he thought, 'Though I normally would
have put all that stuff on the night table upon
entering the room... y'know, like I usually do... this
evening, when I got back from the restaurant... given
how preoccupied I was with my desire to have another
go-around with these feminizing new heels of mine...
I'm not sure I took the time out to do that.'

	On the off-chance that he had, Paul glanced over
to the night table and there, sitting right beside the
clock/radio, right where that stuff of his would have
been had he placed it there, was a woman's, medium
sized, black leather purse.

	Walking over, Paul picked up the purse and began
to examine its' contents.  Key card.  Rental car keys.
House and personal car keys.  Pen knife.  Zippered
change purse.  Wallet.  A femininely craft wallet at
that.  Plus, some extra stuff that clearly went with
that new, bodacious bod of a body of his, the likes of
lipstick, compact, hairbrush, eye-shade and its'
accompanying eye-shade applicator.

	Curious as to wallet's contents, Paul retained
possession of it as he absentmindedly returned that new
pocket book of his to the night table.

	Though he had no doubt that he would find
everything in order, Paul checked out the cash
compartment first.  Then, having done so, he moved next
to his drivers license and was flat out flabbergasted
to find that, while his addressed and operator's ID
number remained unchanged, the information that was
printed upon it clearly reflected his new status as a
certified, card carrying member of the fairer sex.

	Emboldened on its' surface, for all the friggin'
world to see, was the name: Ms. Paula Allison Meadows,
a married, twenty four year old, blonde haired, blue
eyed, Caucasian female, who stood five foot seven and
weighed one hundred and seventeen pounds.

	And for toppers, just to the left of all that
pertinent, personal information, was the corresponding
Department of Motor Vehicle superimposed ID mug shot of
Paul in his perky Paula motif.

	Spot checking several other pieces of
identification, netted Paul the same results.  As far
as his credentials were concerned, they asserted,
without a shadow of a doubt, that he was a bonafide
woman.

	"Wow!  While I knew these heels were good!  I had
no idea that they were that good!", Paul incredulously
exclaimed to his herified self, as he deftly picked up
the purse and proceeded to placed the wallet back
inside of it.

	Doubling checking to ensure the fact that he did
indeed have his room's entry key card, Paul, unaware of
the fact that he was performing in a very femininely
manner, slipped the straps of the handbag over his
shoulder as he made his way over to the door.  Then,
having procured the room's little plastic ice bucket
and its' corresponding plastic lid, Paul, taking
several deep breaths to still his mounting and damn
near debilitating trepidation, placed his hand on the
door's handle, and without further ado, desiring to get
this ice retrieval mission of his over and done with as
soon as possible, opened the door and stepped briskly,
if not demurely, out into the richly carpeted hallway.

	Luck was with him.  The hallway, as he had hoped
and prayed it would be, was empty.  But even though it
was, Paul - as the twenty four year old blonde
bombshell Paula - felt as conspicuous as all get out.
Though he knew that it was extremely foolish and
therefore, nonsensical on his part to feel the way he
was feeling, Paul couldn't quite shake the omnipresent
impression that their were a whole bunch of unseen eyes
- male eyes and therefore, lecherous eyes - monitoring
every single, sensuous movement that he - as a she -
made.

	He wanted to hasten his pace.  He wanted to run.
But his good sense prevailed.

	'No one,' he repeatedly kept telling his herified
self as he proceed cautiously along the hallway, 'knew
that he wasn't the girl that he appeared to be.'  No
one knew that he was really a man, who's body had been
somehow magically transformed into that of a fully
functioning female, and a most sexually seductive,
knock down, dragged out, balls to the walls, gorgeous
piece of feminine topography at that.

	Trouble was, his logic and emotions were a hundred
and eighty degrees out of sync with one another.

	No matter how hard he tried.  No matter how often
he told himself to just take it easy and go with the
flow, Paul couldn't quite shake the skin crawling,
stomach churning, heebie-friggin'-jeebies.

	After what seemed an interminable, gut wrenching
amount of time, Paul arrived at the ice machine's
walled off alcove only to find it already occupied by
an elderly, silvered haired woman, who, it appeared,
seemed to be in some sort of quandary over how to
proceed with, what was to her, the complicated and
daunting chore of acquiring ice.  Coming to her rescue,
Paul, the habitual Good Samaritan's Good Samaritan,
offered to lend a hand.

	Upon examination, Paul discovered that the ice
machine required the insertion of a guest's key card.
The elderly woman, who subsequently introduced herself
as one Mrs. Grace Miller, admitted with some
consternation that she had absentmindedly forgotten
hers.  Paul - as Paula - remedied that situation by
using his own.  Then, having completed the task of
filling Grace's ice bucket for her, Paul, aware that
whole episode with the uncooperative ice machine had
left the grandmotherly Mrs. Miller in a somewhat
befuddled state of mind, took pity on her by graciously
offering to  go the extra mile and escort Grace back to
her room.  As Paul had expected, the doddering and
somewhat frazzled Mrs. Miller gladly took him up on his
offer, saying that she would really appreciate it if he
- as a she - would be so kind as to do so.

	Paul was soon to realized that the cliche: "No
good deed goes unpunished.", was one of the great
truisms of the world.

	Given the persnickety way that old law of Mr.
Murphy's tends to work, Paul, to his utter chagrin and
abject consternation, found that Mrs. Miler's room was
one floor up and damn near three quarters of the way
down a fairly long, L-shaped corridor, necessitating
the need for the two of them to take the elevator.

	Luckily for Paul's ego, the elevator was empty.
The upper hallway however, was not.  There was a man
there, standing, Paul presumed, just outside of his
room, endeavoring, with little apparent luck, to locate
his key card.

	From the way the man fumbled about his person,
checking this pocket and then that one and then the
first one all over again, Paul kind of figured that
there was a fair to midland chance that the fellow may
have partaken of one to many drinks.

	Threat evaluation: the guy posed a potential
problem for Paul in his present, Paula motif.  If
indeed inebriated, the threat quotient was
substantially increased.

	As Paul and the elderly lady he was so charitable
escorting approached this 'gentleman', Paul was keenly
aware that he - as a she - had come under the
surreptitiously scrutiny of the fellow, who, Paul dully
noted, had finally managed to located his key card,
but, though he had, didn't seem to be in any real hurry
to complete the task of unlocking his door.

	'Go ahead, asshole!', Paul, who wasn't the least
little bit happy with the prospect of being the object
of another man's libido-driven attention, mused to his
herified self.  'Look all you want!  Just don't touch
the merchandise!  Try... and I swear!  You'll be one
sorry son of a bitch... if ever there was one!'

	Though it didn't happen soon enough to quell the
massive and damn near debilitating case of prickly skin
engendering heebiejeebies that he - as a she - was
contending with on an ongoing and ever increasing
bases, Paul and the elderly lady he was so graciously
escorting, drew abreast and then, to Paul relief,
passed beyond the uncouth bastard who had been giving
Paul the once, twice and, to Paul's way of thinking,
lewd and lasciviously couched thrice over.

	Then, upon hearing the telltale click that clearly
denoted the unlocking of a door behind him, Paul, who
was both repulsed and, for some strange and
inexplicable reason, wickedly exhilarated with the
knowledge that his admirer was still back there,
mentally undressing the livin' shit out of him - as a
most curvacious and long and lovely legged her - gave
into an impishly concocted compulsion.  Pivoting that
angelically sculpture head of his back over his
shoulder in a quick, fluid, un-telegraphed motion,
Paul, caught his admirer completely off guard.  Then,
having locked eyes with the arrogant asshole, Paul
teasingly castigated  him with a negative, to and fro
head waggle, which was deliciously punctuated with the
merest hit of a knowing, yet clearly disapproving
smile.

	A moment or so after that, Paul and Mrs. Miller
turned the corner and shortly thereafter, after a brief
moment or two of confused indecision on Grace's part
over her room number, located her and her husband's
room.  Though it took more time, not to mention, a hell
of a lot more commotion than Paul would have liked
under the ignominious circumstances he felt he was
operating under, Grace's insistent knocking finally got
her hard of hearing husband's attention.  A minute
after that, having been the recipient of Grace Miller's
heart felt thanks, Paul was re-tracing his steps back
along the corridor.

	As he - as a she - passed down the hallway, Paul
re-thought the prior incident the with gawker and
quickly came to the realization that he may have been a
little to hard on the fellow.  'Had the situation been
reversed...', Paul begrudgingly admitted to his
herified self.  'Had it been me in the hallway... and
had this built like a brick shithouse blonde bombshell
come seductively strutting down the hallway... I
seriously doubt that my behavior would have been all
that different...

	'So, Paul... in the future... if some swinging
dick gives you the hairy eyeball... y'know, like up one
side and down the other... do yourself a favor!  Don't
go getting these new titties of your's in an uproar!
Try being a little bit more magnanimous about it!  Ease
up!  Cut the guy some slack!

	'In other words, Paul, old buddy, old pal: do unto
others as they would do unto you!  Alright?'

	Shortly thereafter, Paul, who, on a subliminal
level, was starting to really get into this heel
induced girl shit of his, had an opportunity to see if
he, as an uncontested looker, could manage to do just
that.  When he was about halfway along the corridor,
Paul heard the elevator doors open and saw this well
dressed, thirty something fellow step into the hallway,
turn and start heading in his direction.

	Suppressing the urge to preform a quick turnabout
and beat feet in the opposite direction, Paul did
everything he - as a she - could do to maintain a
stead, but casual appearing pace.  With his hips
swishing and swaying in that new and sexy manner that
those stiletto heels had saddled him with, Paul moved
slightly to his right, so as to afford the steadily
advancing man sufficient room to pass by on his left,
at what Paul calculated, was a socially acceptable and
non-sexually threatening distance.

	As Paul and the man came abreast of one another,
the man, in a very casual manner that spoke well of his
southern upbringing, bide Paul a soft spoken, "Good
evening, ma'am!".  Paul, who was caught completely off
guard by the man's pleasantry, after a fumbling,
stutter-start, returned in kind and, without breaking
that sultry feminine stride of his, continued on down
the hallway.

	Dealing with a would be admirer in the hallway was
one thing.  Dealing with an admirer in an elevator was
quite another.   A hallway presented Paul with not one,
but two ways to extricate his heel herified self from a
potential problem.  In an elevator, Paul as the ample
chested femme fatale that the heels had so marvelously
and miraculously turned him into, would feel a little
to hemmed in and therefore, to trapped, to suit him in
his present condition.  And because he felt that way,
Paul opted to use the stairs to descend to the lower
level were both his room and the ice machine were
located.

	Reclaiming his plastic ice bucket from the little
wall niche where he had earlier stashed it, so as to
free up his hands, which in turn, allowed him to carry
Grace's ice bucket for her, Paul wasted no time in
acquiring his own supply of ice and returning to his
room.

	Back in his room, before attending to anything
else, Paul promptly checked his laptop, only to find
that there were still a few pictures of his herified
self remaining in the printer's program queue.  Aware
that he might have gone a tad bit overboard with the
amount of pictures he had selected for printing, Paul,
having taken several moments to examine, in some
detail, the pictures already printed, turned on the TV
and proceeded to fix himself a glass of diet soda.
Selecting a bag of previous opened pretzel sticks to
munch on, Paul moved to the bed and, propping up the
pillows first, stretched out that new, bodacious and
thoroughly feminized body of his upon its' surface.

	As he lay there, nibbling on a pretzel stick and
using the remote control to surf through the available
channels for something interesting to watch, Paul began
to ponder something that had been nagging at the back
of his mind, all throughout this rather novel and,
though he did so grudgingly, admittedly nifty
transsexualization of his.

	"I wonder... just how much of a woman am I?", he
mused aloud.

	"I mean... while I freely admit that my body, my
voice and these new mannerisms of mine are about as
feminine as feminine can be... when it comes to my
mind... I'm not so sure that it isn't still is as manly
as it ever was!

	"True!  While I might sound like a woman is
supposed to sound... y'know, with this new, sultry and
sexy voice that these heels have fitted me out with...
when push comes to shove... though I know this is very
subjective and all that other crap... I don't believe
that my vocabulary... or, for that matter... my
sentence structure is that of a real woman.

	"That's to say that while I might walk the walk, I
don't think I actually talk the talk.

	"That's point one.

	"Now, as to point two...", Paul continued, after a
sort pause to take a sip of his diet soda.

	"Do I still like women?  Or - God forbid! - are
men my cup of tea now?

	"Well... there's one thing for damn sure!  You're
balls to walls in friggin' love-lust with yourself!

	"In other words, Paul me buckaroo!  You're a full
fledged narcissist!

	"Which means... you still dig the shit out of
women!  And because you do, you'll have to concede the
fact that now you're a woman yourself, you're a
friggin' lesbian dyke!  Y'know, that doesn't fit the
accepted profile of what a lesbian dyke is supposed to
be!  Y'know, because decked out in this body... moving
the way you do now... you've got to admit that there's
nothing - Not one blessed thing! - mannish about the
all new, and hopefully, temporary feminized you!

	"So... unless I'm way off base in these subjective
deductions of mine... I do believe that as far as this
mind of mine's concerned... I'm still the man I've
always been..."

	Within moments of arriving at that tentative
conclusion of his, Paul gained some additional evidence
which, to his way of thinking, tended to strongly
support his supposition that his mind was still very
much a manly entrenched mind.  As he lay there,
nibbling away at another pretzel stick and
absentmindedly flipping through the television
channels, Paul came upon a local UHF channel which was
airing a Star Trek Voyager re-run; an episode that had
the ex-Borg, Seven of Nine, blazing resplendent in that
spiffy, torso hugging and therefore, extremely
flattering silver cat suit.

	If Paul still harbored any doubts about his still
possessing a manly attuned mind, seeing Jeri Ryan in
that libido torquing getup eradicated them on the spot.
While he might not be a man in a physically sense, Paul
was as positive as positive can be that his mental
make-up was as male as it had ever been.

	True, Paul found his herified self wondering and
fantasizing about how he - as a she - would look like
decked out in a stiletto heeled version of Seven of
Nine's silverized uni-suit; knowing, with a sheer and
utter certainty, that he'd look good.  Damn good!
Better, in fact, than Jeri Ryan herself did.  'And
that,', he told his herified self, 'was saying
something!'; given the irrefutable fact that Jeri Ryan
was one fine piece of feminine topography herself.

	"Shit!", Paul exclaimed, realizing that his
printer had finished up printed the pictures he had
earlier selected.

	Getting up, Paul walked over to the table where
upon resided both his laptop and printer and, sitting,
began to close down the digital picture processing
program he had open.  Then, with that accomplished,
Paul proceeded on to shut down his laptop and remove
power from both it and its' nifty little companion
printer.

	Knowing that he wanted to log another fifteen
minutes or there abouts, before he reached down and
removed the heels from off of his feet, Paul picked up
the pictures that he had printed of his herified self
and returned to the starboard side of the room's queen
sized bed.  Then, as he lay there, lecherously and
lasciviously examining the just out-putted pictures,
Paul, in a semi-conscious effort to keep himself at a
deliciously compelling, though thoroughly manageable
level of unadulterated horniness, and employing a deft
hand to achieve his goal, alternated between a game of
titty swirl and tweak and a light, teasing massage of
the erogenous zone that lay along the upper run of one
or another of his luscious and femininely super-
sensitized inner thighs.

	Paul was so engrossed with those pictures of his
herified self that before he knew it, fifteen minutes
had come and gone.  Glancing up at the TV, the
scrolling credits of the Star Trek Voyager episode that
he had absentmindedly left on informed him that it was
nigh on to ten o'clock and therefore, time for him to
attend to the heels' removal.

	Getting up, Paul took a moment or so out to put
those just out-putted pictures of his herified self in
a manila folder and the folder into the inside pocket
of his briefcase's accordion file, before he got down
to the nitty-gritty of what he had been intent on doing
ever since he got back from the restaurant and got
turned into a atomically correct member of the fairer
sex.  Returning to the foot of the bed, Paul sat and,
without further ado, plucked those pointy toed, spiked
heeled bad boys of his from off of his feet.  Standing,
Paul place the pumps on the wall mounted dresser, just
to the right of the TV and proceed to get undressed.
Then, once he was  brazenly and bodaciously stark
raving naked, Paul, as calmly and as precisely as he
could manage under the circumstances mandated by his
compelling sense of horniness induced excitement, took
the femininely attuned garments he had been wearing
and, folding them into a neat pile, place them gingerly
on the table, so that they sat right up alongside his
handy dandy laptop computer.

	Then, as he was making his way back around to the
side of bed, Paul, who usually slept in only an
undershirt, stopped and procured one from the dresser's
top drawer.  However, though he took the undershirt
back to the bed with him, Paul, after a little internal
debate with his herified self, elected to hold off
putting the shirt on for the time being and so tossed
it to the foot of the bed.

	With his anticipation mounting exponentially,
Paul, who was hoping and praying that he was indeed
right about both the equal time business and his
ultimate restoration to maleness, made quick work of
turning down the sheets, turning off both the lights
and TV and climbing ever so eagerly into the awaiting
bed.

	Having played an almost never ending game of grab
tush and titty tweak with his ultra feminized self for
a good two hours already, Paul, who was as horny as
hell and getting hornier with each and every
palpitation of that narcissistically couched heart of
his, waisted no time at all getting down to the
business at hand.

	Employing his left hand to fondle and massage the
livin' shit out of the nipple and corresponding areola
of his ample and femininely super sensitized right
breast, Paul, with the expertise gained through years
and years of lavishing such pleasure engendering
manipulations upon his wife, Janice's genitalia,
inserted the middle finger of his right hand inside the
love juicy slick vestibule of his very own little honey
pot.  Knowing fully well that vaginal penetration
wasn't going to produce the sensations he dearly
desired to experience, Paul only took a second or so to
make a cursory, half hearted exploratory thrust into
the tight little satinized well of his newly installed
vaginal orifice.  Then, impatient to get it on with his
own herified self, Paul withdrew his probing middle
finger and teasingly slide it forward through the
central swath of that new little crevasse crease of
his.

	Zing!  Paul's finger came in contact with that
elusive and damn near infinitesimal nub of his clit.

	Zing!  Zing!  He continued to expertly manipulate
that little clitoral protrusion of his, triggering the
most erotically pleasurable jolts of pure,
unadulterated sexual pleasure that he had ever -
throughout his whole, entire life - experienced.

	Zing!  Zing!  Zing!  His legs wiggled.  They
jiggled  They jangled, splaying out even further than
they already were.  And in a concurrent move, his left
hand swiftly moved form off of his right breast and
onto its' conically shaped, teat surmounted, bosom
buddy of a twin.

	Zing!  Zing!  Zing!  Zing!  He moaned, a deep
throated moan of abject and unrestrained capitulation.

	Zing!  Zing!  Zing!  Zing!  Zing!  Unable to
resist the primal impetus for the continued verbalized
airing of his self engendered passions, he heard his
herified self squeal.  He heard his herified self
whimper.  He heard his herified self scream.  He heard
his herified self shriek!  He heard his herified self
pitifully and relentlessly beseech the Almighty.  And
in the erotic frenzy of that insightful moment, Paul
knew - without the shadow of a doubt - that he, like
his wife, had became a certified, card carrying member
of the Pillow Eaters Club.

	The pleasure was excruciating.  And with each and
every little clitoral tweak of his finger, it became
more so.  It Doubled and re-doubled.  It ricocheted off
of the surrealistic dementia of carnal desire,
compounding in upon itself and careening off of the
sheer and utter abandonment of the one erotic and self
directed indulgence to the next.

	Then, just when Paul felt as if he - as a she -
could endure not one, infinitesimal iota more, his
finger flicked, triggering, in its' aftermath, the
tsunami-emulating rapture of mutli-orgasmic bliss.

	Again and again and again and again and again and
again, that new, succulent and supple body of Paul's
was wracked and ravaged by the intensely excruciating,
prism-like ecstasy of the rippling, muscular wash of
orgasmic release.

	Twenty minutes or so later, once the myriad of
orgasmic after-shocks had run their course and a
cushion of sufficient time had elapsed in which he felt
somewhat recuperated from his inaugural orgasmic tryst
as a fully functioning female, Paul opted to have
another go at it, just to see if his first impressions
stood the test of time.

	They did indeed at that.

	Truth be told, now that he - as a she - knew not
only what to expect, but also what tickled that new,
orgasmic triggering fancy of his and what did not, Paul
found - to his sheer and utter amazement - that his
second foray into the magical, mystical realm of
clitoral induced orgasmic wonderment wasn't just a
smidgen or two better than his prior experience.
Rather, his second, self engendered orgasmic interlude
- in every conceivable aspect - far surpassed his
first.

	As he lay there, basking in the celestial-like
serenity of a most luxurious orgasmic afterglow, Paul
realized that Teirersias, the Theban soothsayer of
Greek Mythology, who spent part of his life as a man
and another part as a woman, was right: when it came to
the enjoyment of sex, woman had it head and shoulders
over their male counterparts.

	'Damn!', he thought, sitting up in the bed and
bending his well endowed feminized torso as far forward
as it would go.  'It's a damn dirty shame that this
new, bodacious body of mine isn't double jointed!

	'Were it!  I'd be able to bend far enough over so
as to actually go down on myself!  Y'know, and give my
herified self a proper tongue lashing!

	'I mean... if a mere finger tweaking of this new
little clit of mine did what it just now up and went
and did to me... I can't begin to imagine what a self
lubricating tongue lashing would be like!'

	All of a sudden, as he lay there, bemusedly
contemplating, comparing and blissfully cataloging the
entire spectrum of his two orgasmic experiences as a
full fledged female, Paul realized that those new and
improved titties of his were rock hard and rigidly
distended.

	'Hell!,', he thought to his herified self.  'I
can't be horny again already!

	'I mean... it's a given that I will be... y'know,
once I get my shit together... but, that won't be for
awhile yet...'

	Then, it hit him.  The room had cooled
considerable.  Those new titties of his weren't, as he
had at first assumed, responding to a resumption of his
narcissistically driven horniness.  Rather, they were
responding to a very noticeable drop in the room's
temperature.

	To offset the fairly noticeable change in room
temperature, Paul, who, as stated previously, like to
wear a T-shirt to bed, reached down and, after a few
groping efforts with his left hand, located the
undershirt he had so prudently provided for just that
eventuality.  A second or so after that, Paul busily
was pulling the black cotton T-shirt down his
emasculated arms and over that pretty little head of
his.  However, as the undershirt began to fall loosely
about his mammary enhanced torso, something strange
occurred.  The heels, though they no longer resided
upon his feet, effected Paul's T-shirt much as they had
the clothing he had been wearing when he had allowed
the sexual reassignment process to progress to its'
logical conclusion earlier on that evening.

	In other words, what started out as a simple,
extra-large, black cotton and somewhat bedraggled and
over used manly sleep-shirt, ended up as a spaghetti
strapped, black satin, chest hugging, chest enhancing,
camisole-like teddy.

	"Well, I'll be...", Paul exclaimed to his herified
self.  "I'm not even wearing those stiletto heeled bay
boys and they're still working that feminizing magic of
their's on me!

	"Now, that - I have to admit! - Is really
something..."

	Now while Paul's first inclination was to remove
the sexy, feminine garment P.D.Q., once he took a
second or so out to run those demure and delicate
reconstructed hands of his provocatively across the
garment's luxurious satin nap, he quickly reconsidered.

	True, though part of him felt all icky and weird,
like he was some sort of perverted, whacked out
crossdresser, who had been caught red-handed, decked
out in women's apparel, there was another part of him
that aligned itself with the old and time worn adage
that - roughly stated - admonished: when in Rome, do as
the Romans do.

	'Funny!', Paul thought to his herified self.  'I
didn't feel like a friggin' transvestite earlier
tonight.  Y'know, when those heels trussed me up in a
bra, panties and sock transmogrified pantyhose.

	'True... though I emphatically knew - right from
the get-go - that I was fitted out with both bra and
panties... and even though I wasn't all that sure about
the pantyhose business at the time... I guess the
reason I didn't feel so damn icky about being decked
out in all that feminine regalia at the time was
because they were out of sight, hidden beneath my jeans
and sweater, and therefore, because I couldn't actually
see 'em, they remained out of mind...

	'That, however... isn't the case with this dick
teaser special of a nightie that those heels of mine
have - for a lack of a better way to put this - ignobly
and nefariously inflicted on me!'

	However, as stated previously, before Paul could
act on that first inclination of his, the one that
urged a quick removal of the offensively feminine
garment, other factors came into play.  Though it
rankled the livin' shit out of him to admitted it -
even to his herified self - Paul found that he didn't
just like the luxurious and down right erotically
stimulating sensations that the black satin teddy
engendered.  He - as the she that he had become -
revelled in them, so much so that he found his herified
self becoming all hot and bothered all over again.

	Taking a queue from the famed guitarist Eric
Clapton, Paul, in an all out effort to savor every
nuance of the experience he was fostering upon his
herified self, employed the Slow Hand Method of
clitoral stimulation.  Slowly, but surely, and
enhancing his endeavors by fantasizing about his male
persona getting it on with his heel induced female
persona all the while, Paul tweaked and massaged that
little clit of his until he engendered the excruciating
joy of multi-orgasmic bliss for the third and final
time of the evening.

	Then, though his male ego was still more than a
little uncomfortable over the fact that his female
physique was resplendently decked out in that sexy,
black satin number, Paul, as done in as he - as a she -
was after that third, self-induced, multi-orgasmic
interlude of his, came to the conclusion that it just
wasn't worth all the effort to go through the hassle of
sitting up and removing it.  Besides, if his
suppositions about the heels and their apparent
resident magic qualities were correct, the teddy would
transmogrify back into his old T-shirt within the next
hour or so.

	Though Paul had originally planned to remain awake
until he got his manhood back, his orgasmic experiences
as a full fledged member of the opposite sex had so
tuckered him out that he allowed the extremely
pleasurable, multi-faceted, cuddly feeling, warm fuzzes
of post-orgasmic contemplation to gentle lull him into
the rarity of a deep, untroubled sleep, the like of
which he rarely enjoyed when out on the road and away
from the comfort afforded him by his and his wife's own
bed.  Truth be told, Paul didn't even wake up in the
middle of the night to use the bathroom as he usually
did.  Had he, he would have had his misgivings
assuaged; for even though Paul was fast asleep when it
occurred, his female to male physical makeover kicked
in right on schedule and, though he remained completely
oblivious to the fact, he was once again his former,
manly self.

* * *


	Ever since he had been a teenager, Paul had the
uncanny ability to wake up somewhere in the
neighborhood of a good five to ten minutes before he
was to be awakened by either a pre-set alarm or a pre-
arranged wake-up call.  The morning following his first
go-around with the magically empowered high heeled
pumps was to be no exception.  At five twenty three, a
full seven minutes before the phone was suppose to ring
with his previously arranged wake-up call, Paul opened
his eyes to lackadaisically great a new day.

	A second or so later, a very fuzzy headed Paul
Meadows, who, it should be noted, was still a far cry
from being fully awake and therefore, no where near
lucid, was frantically and concurrently groping the
livin' shit out of the areas both in and around his
groin and his chest.  Finding that everything was
copacetic and that he did indeed have both a penis and
its' accompanying handy dandy, dull lobed, non-
symmetrical testicle sack and no sign or sense of any
sort of unmanly chest protrusions or enhancements, Paul
felt a sense of abject and heart-felt relief wash over
him.

	Though he already knew the answer in that madly
palpitating heart of hearts of his, Paul found that he
still had to ask himself the obligatory question, "Was
it all just some sort of perverted, surrealistic dream
that I dreamt last night?  Or... did it really happen?
Did those heels really turn me into a friggin' girl?
And, as a girl, did I really give myself not one... not
two... but three excruciatingly pleasurable, multi-
orgasmic engendering hand-jobs?"

	Crawling out from under the covers, Paul, seeking
irrefutable conformation, got up and proceeded
directing to his briefcase.  Opening it, Paul swiftly
located the manila folder and the pictures of himself -
as a fully functioning and extremely gorgeous member of
the opposite sex - which were contained within.

	"Oh, shit!", Paul, unable to deny the evidence
presented by the pictures he had taken of his herified
self, demonstratively declared, "As incredible and as
hard to swallow as it might be, there's no getting
around the fact that those heels I purchased yesterday
sure as hell did a number on me!

	"I mean... there's no denying the fact that those
stiletto heeled bay boys of mine did indeed turned me
into a blonde bombshell to end all friggin' blonde
bombshells!

	"I mean... as a girl... I was a definitely and
undeniable a first class fox!"

	Then, as he stood there flipping through the
pictures of himself as a fully ensconced female, the
phone rang with his wake-up call, scaring the livin'
shit out of Paul in the process.

	Feeling much like a kid caught with his hand in
the proverbial cookie jar, Paul quickly stuffed the
pictures of his feminized self back in the folder and
the folder back in the accordion file of his briefcase,
as he quickly made his way back to the bed and its'
associated night table, where upon, he picked up the
receiver and proceed on to answered his wake-up call.
Having done so, aware that it was way to early to put
in a call to either his partner in crime, Ed, or his
wife, Paul, who's interest was piqued to the nth
degree, proceed on to check out the clothes he had been
wearing during the first half of his four hour stint as
a crotched creased member in impeccable standing of the
fairer sex.  Delighted, Paul found that his jeans,
sweater, socks and underwear had, much like his body,
been restored to their former male adherence.

	Acting on an impulse and a desire to produced yet
another diskette copy of the digital pictures he had
taken the night before of his herified self, Paul
restored power to his laptop and, while it was going
through its' start up routine, he proceeded on into the
bathroom for a quick shower and shave.  Feeling
refreshed and ready to take on the day and, after a
thorough inspection of his reflection in the full
length dressing mirror just to reassure himself that he
was once again the man he had always been, Paul
returned to table, where he quickly inserted a pre-
formatted diskette in his computer and proceeded to
copy the desired digitalized photographs to it.  Having
done so, Paul turned his laptop around, so that he
would be able to better gaze upon its' screen, and then
selected the slide-show option of the digital picture
processing program he was using.

	Selecting his dark blue, three piece suit, a white
shirt and a red patterned power-tie, Paul proceeded on
to get dressed; all the while, glancing over towards
his laptop and the pictures of his herified self that
its' LCD screen was displaying, in five second burst,
over and over and over and over again.

	Once dressed, Paul put in a call to Ed's room,
just to see if his cohort was amendable to grabbing
some breakfast on their way over to the trade show.  Ed
did and so, with most of the coordinating efforts
falling on Paul as the senior member of the team, they
came to a mutual agreement as to where they would eat
and the time they'd link up with one another.

	The next call Paul placed was to his Janice.  It
was a fairly short call, necessitated by the fact that
his wife was also employed and therefore, given her
time restraints, she didn't have a whole hell of a lot
of time to spare before she herself had to get on the
road.

	Making double damn sure that he avoided any
mention of the high heels and what those persnickety,
pointy toed devils had done to him, Paul apologized for
his not having called her the night before and then,
basically listened as Janice brought him up to date on
a whole slew of rather mundane and non-essential
subjects.  Then, having answered the few obligatory
questions that Janice put to him, Paul, after a little
idle chit-chat of his own, brought the conversation to
a conclusion by informing his wife that he loved her
and that he missed her and that he would check in again
with her sometime early on that evening.  Loving good-
byes were then exchanged and the call succinctly
terminated.

	Hanging up the phone, Paul took a moment out to
check his watch.  He had about fifteen minutes before
he went and collected Ed.

	Moving to the table, Paul terminated the slide-
show his laptop was running and exited the program he
had opened.  Next, he selected the shut down option and
waited for the prompt that informed him that he could
safely proceed on to remove power form his computer.
He did that and then, packed both his laptop and its'
companion printer away within their padded, soft-
walled, traveling case, which he in turn, placed inside
one of his lockable suitcases.  Next, he packed away
the sexually transmogrifying spike heeled dick teaser
specials; placing them gingerly back inside their
tissue paper lined shoe box and that shoe box, he them
took and placed inside his other lockable suitcase.

	Then, having addressed a few other odds and ends,
Paul, with a last check to insure that he had taken
care of everything that needed taking care of and that
he did indeed have the room's key card in his
possession, was out the door and off to Ed's room.  A
thoroughly enjoyable and filling breakfast followed and
then, it was off to the convention center and the
technical symposium that was being held on its' ground
floor level.

	Basically, except for a few hour long product
demonstration presentations, that were stagged in one
or another of the allotted meeting rooms which were
located just off of the main exhibition floor, Paul and
Ed's job was to man  their company's kiosk for the
express purpose of providing information to both
prospective buyers and established costumers about
their company's high-tech fiber-optic telecommunication
products and associated test gear.

	Generally, though it could get a bit hectic out on
the exhibition floor at times to suit his likes, Paul,
who, unlike his cohort had been an employee of one of
the Baby Bell operating companies, had a excellent
working knowledge of both his company's products and
their specific applications  and therefore, found that
he really enjoyed and look forward to the challenge of
representing his company at such high tech trade fairs.
That day though, given the fact that, no matter what he
did or didn't do, no matter how hard he tried, Paul
couldn't quite get the events of the previous evening
off of his mind.  Again and again and again and again,
the image of himself, functioning as a most delectable
and desirable herself, asserted itself; making it neigh
on to impossible for Paul to focus his disheveled
thoughts on damn near anything else.

	For example, that morning, right smack dab in the
middle of one of his favorite presentations, just as he
was about to demonstrate some of the finer selling
points of the particular fiber-optic test set he was
demonstrating at the time, Paul ignominiously came
within a hair's breath of giving into a most insistent
and damn near omnipresent urge; an urge that was
endeavoring to compel him into pulling one of Michael
Jackson's infamous stage maneuvers - y'know, that would
have him reach down and crassly grab his crotch, so
that he could proceed on to grope the livin' shit out
of the orgasmic engendering nub of the clit that he -
as a man - no longer possessed down there.

	Luckily, Paul caught himself before he made the
gross faux pas that, if reported back to his home
office, would have gotten him fired on the spot.

	Distracted as he was and keenly aware that he
wasn't operating at any where near optimum level, Paul,
when and wherever possible, asked Ed to handle most of
the kiosk inquires, using the excuse that his stomach
was feeling a little bit queasy.  Ed, who, after a
carefree late night spree that revolved around the
imbibing of a wee bit to much booze, had relied on
Paul's good nature in similar circumstances over the
past few years of their association, readily agreed to
take on the brunt of duties that fell within their
bailiwick.  Ed, who was about as magnanimous about such
things as magnanimous could be, even offered to go so
far as to take over Paul's presentation duties.  Paul,
though extremely appreciative, declined his partner's
offer; aware of the fact that, as distracted as he was,
he'd much rather deal with all the rigmarole involved
in giving a demonstration than having to contend with
all the confusion involved in being out on the
exhibition floor, confined within the somewhat cramped
space allotted to their company's kiosk display.

	Interesting enough, as distracted as he was by the
persistent recollections of the events of the previous
evening, Paul managed to attend to a few things that,
to his way of thinking, directly related to those
aforementioned events.

	For instances, about twenty minutes or so before
the symposium officially opened to the public for the
day's scheduled events, Paul asked Ed if he would mind
holding down the fort for a few minutes; saying that if
Ed did so, he would return the favor by picking up a
couple of cups of coffee ere he returned.  Ed, who was
fairly easy to bride, readily agree and so Paul, taking
his briefcase with him, promptly exited the kiosk.
Weaving his way down one aisle and up the next, Paul
sought out an old tech show acquaintance of his and
asked if he might prevail upon this old drinking buddy
of his to do him the favor of using his top of the line
computer system and its' associated state of the art
color printer to output a few pictures that his
nonexistent brother's eldest daughter had taken of
herself.

	Al, Paul's tech show drinking buddy, went Paul one
better.  Assuming possession of Paul's diskette, Al
informed Paul that if Paul would be so kind as to leave
the diskette with him for an hour or so, he would not
only print out the pictures for Paul, but he would
first run them through his most resent picture
publisher program to remove any glitches and there by,
improve their over all composition before out-putting
them at the highest DPI (dots per inch) his printer
would handle, onto photo quality paper.

	Though he was more than a little uneasy about
leaving the diskette, fearing that those pictures of
that bogus niece of his might one day end up being
nefariously posted on the internet for all the world to
gawk and gaze at, Paul, upon receiving Al's repeated
promise not to make any copies of any kind, headed off
to purchase the cups of coffee he had promised to pick
up before returning to his company's kiosk and his
cohort Ed.

	About two and a half hours later, upon his return
to the kiosk after his scheduled morning presentation,
Ed handed Paul a large manila envelope with Paul's name
emblazoned upon it.  Inside, Paul found not one, but
two complete sets of the photos he had taken of his
herified self on the previous evening, the diskette and
a most complimentary note from Al which, in so many
words, asserted that Paul was indeed fortunate to have
such a lovely niece and, with that said, continued on
to affirm the fact that, though severely tempted, Al
had refrained from making a copy of the pictures for
his own personal consumption.

	Ed, who had been doing his best to surreptitiously
scrutinizing the pictures as Paul casually flipped
through them, felt compelled to ask, "Alright, Paul!
Fess up!  Who's the babe?"

	Paul, who was primed and ready for the Ed's
curiously couched inquiry, employed a very Clintonian
approached  and in doing so, proceed on to lie that
manly re-fabricated ass of his off.

	"Her?", Paul queried, holding one of the pictures
of his herified self out so that Ed could get an ample
eye full of it.  "Oh!  She's my younger brother's
eldest daughter."

	"Oh...", Ed stammered a somewhat embarrassed
reply.  "She's very... very attractive..."

	"Yes...", Paul, inward elated at his cohort's
flattering appraisal, matter-of-factly  concurred.
"Yes... she is... isn't she..."


* * *


	That morning, upon waking, even though he had
thoroughly enjoyed his rather truncated stint as a
fully functioning member of the opposite sex,
especially in so far as the intense and excruciating
pleasure he had so deliciously derived from those
clitorally induced orgasms of his, Paul wasn't all that
sure that he'd ever have another go-around with the
transsexualizing spiked heeled pumps.  By mid-morning
though, he was pretty sure he would.  And by the time
noon rolled around, he was unequivocally convinced he
would.

	Truth be told, Paul knew that shortly after he got
back to his motel room and put in the promised call to
his wife, he'd be slipping back into those stiletto
heeled bad boys for another night of fun and frivolity
as a stacked and packed, crotch creased, clitoris
equipped member of the Sugar and Spice and Everything
Nice Club.

	All throughout the earlier hours of the morning,
Paul crassly, if not pervertedly, found himself
fantasying; serving up mental images of his penis
equipped male self getting it on with his heel induced,
vagina fitted out, amply endowed female self.  Then,
somewhere around ten thirty or there abouts, those
narcissistically couched fantasies of Paul's began to
be inter-spaced with fantasies that were clearly
lesbian in nature, in that they involved Paul -
resplendent in his female demeanor - getting it on with
the love of his life - his wife of eighteen years -
Janice.

	Trouble was: when it came to Janice and her
willingly participation in, what for her would be
nothing less that a perverted and therefore abhorrent
homosexual act, even if the person she was preforming
the perverted and therefore abhorrent homosexual act
upon was none other than her very own magically
transsexualized husband, Paul knew, in that manly heart
of hearts of his, that she would never - Ever! - go for
it!  While somewhat progressively tolerant of other
people's sexual proclivities, Paul was keenly aware
that his wife was a dyed in the wool heterosexual woman
who couldn't conceive of herself engaging in any other
form of sexual activity, other than your normal, one on
one, male-female type of sexual relationship.

	And there in lay one of the problems revolving
around the heels that Paul perceived.  Though he did so
grudgingly, when push came to shove, Paul had to admit
that he was thoroughly intrigued and therefore,
hopelessly captivated by the very notion that he could
turn himself into a gorgeous piece of feminine
topography by merely donning, what one might describe
as a pair of your classic, spiked heeled, pointy toed
opera pumps.  And because he was so intrigued by the
various permutations of the sexual pleasures he might
conceivably derive out being the transitory embodiment
of a fully functioning female, Paul wasn't about to
delude himself into thinking that he would be able to
resist the admittedly crass and perverted urge to don
them every once in a while after he returned home.
Janice, Paul knew, might even be magnanimous enough to
conceivably grant Paul the leeway to do so.

	Sure, she would take some convincing.  And Paul
would have to approach the subject tactfully.  But,
once his wife heard him out and logically examined all
the pros and cons revolving around the issue of her
husband's part time feminization, Paul felt reasonably
confident that if he steered clear of any and all
suggestions revolving around his perverted desire to
engage in a lesbian liaison with her, Janice would be
as understanding as she always was.

	Fact is: once Janice got past her initial
reservations concerning her husband's part time stints
as a full blown femme fatale, she might actual find
that she enjoyed interacting with a feminized version
of husband.

	For instance, Paul, like a lot of the men he knew,
wasn't what one might call an enthusiastic shopper,
especially so when it came to accompanying his wife
when she went shopping for women's attire.  Basically,
Paul took the grin and bear it approach during those
all to frequent times he found himself more or less
coerced into chauffeuring his wife around to the
various establishments that carried the lines of
feminine apparel she tended to wear.  However, were
Paul to don the heels and end up all girlified, he
might find that he was much more amendable to engage in
one of his wife's favorite pastimes, with that favorite
pastime of her's being: the torturous, all day shopping
spree.

	'Hell!', Paul internally speculated, 'Were I a
high heel shod, amply endowed, card carrying member of
the opposite sex myself, I might fine that I could even
enjoy browsing around one of those classy, frilly
lingerie boutiques that Janice seems to have a tendency
to frequent..."

	Also, added into that particular equation of
Paul's, was all those pesky housewear parties, not to
mention, all those baby and bridal showers that his
wife felt obliged to attend.

	By her own admission, Janice would much prefer
attending such affairs in the company of her very
bestest friend, with that very bestest friend of her's
being none other than her business partner, lover and
husband.  Trouble was: such affairs normally
discouraged male participation and because they did,
Paul, to his ever lovin' relief, rarely - if ever -
found himself forced into attending one with her.

	Paul, though he didn't relish the notion in any
way, shape or form, could, via his donning of the
magical pumps, skirt that long standing, non-stated,
females only admonition to such affairs in one fell
swoop.  And knowing his wife as he did, knowing that
given her druthers she would have him accompany her
more times than not, Janice would take a great deal of
perverse pleasure in opting for that ploy, when and
wherever possible.

	'On second thought!  Maybe, I ought to reconsider
telling Janice about the heels in the first friggin'
place!  Y'know, given all the boring girl-shit she'll
have me going to with her...', Paul, exploring his
options, dejectedly speculated.

	From there, Paul move on to tackle the other
problem he perceived in so far as the heels were
concerned.  Once he got around his wife's long held
aversion to wearing such high heeled footware and
somehow found a way to talk her into at least trying
them on for him, Paul knew that he would face an up
hill battle trying to ever again get access to them.
Once those stiletto heeled bay boys of his had worked
their magic on his wife, making her look a whole hell
of a good ten to fifteen years younger than she
actually was and drop dead gorgeous to boot, Janice -
He did not delude himself. - would be loathed to
surrender them.

	True, they could, with some foresight, work out a
schedule.

	Say for instance, if Janice, in her heel induced
bodacious babe motif, wanted Paul - as the fetchingly
lovely femme fatale Paula - to go to a lingerie party
with her one evening.

	No problem.

	With a little advanced planning, Janice could
simply start off on that hypothetical morning wearing
the heels and there by, build up hours and hours of
residual time in her enhanced state of corporeal
deportment.  Then, that evening, just before setting
off for the aforementioned lingerie party, she could
simply take the pumps off so that Paul could slip them
on and there by, undergo full physical feminization.

	That notion got Paul to thinking, so much so that
when Ed returned from his more than generous lunch
break to relieve his partner so that Paul could take
the appropriate measures to appease his own hunger,
Paul, prior to his seeking out something to eat, sought
out a near by public pay phone and placed two calls;
with the first being to the local telephone company's
information bureau and the second, to the very same
boutique he had purchased the heels from on the
previous day.  After several rings, an out of breath
salesgirl answered the phone and Paul went on to ask
her if she remembered the high heels that had been in
one or the other of the stores display windows.  She
thought she did, prompting Paul to further inquire as
to the possibility of acquiring another pair of the
very same pumps.  The salesgirl informed Paul that
she'd have to check and so saying, Paul heard the
telltale click that told him in no uncertain terms that
he had been placed on hold.  Then, after what seemed to
Paul to be an interminable wait, the salesgirl came
back on the line and informed Paul that she didn't
think that they had any other shoes like the ones he
had described in stock and that if he was still
interested in obtaining a pair of the shoes, he could
call back in about a half an hour and talk to the store
manager.

	After consuming a cheese-dog, a small order of
under-cooked and over-salted fires and a 12 oz. can of
diet soda, Paul did just that.  Trouble was: after
another interminable wait on hold, Paul found that the
store's manager, though she too recalled seeing the
heels, didn't know a whole hell of a lot more about
them than did the salesgirl he had spoken to
previously.  And like her teenage sales clerk, the
store manager offered Paul yet another suggestion.  Due
to the fact that all the boutique's displays fell under
the bailiwick of the assistant manger's duties, Paul
was told to call back after four and ask to make the
inquiry of her.

	Paul was well aware of the fact that his chances
of acquiring another pair of the magically infused high
heels were somewhere right smack, dab in the friggin'
middle of the overtly frustrating realm of slim and
none.  However, if the acquisition of duplicate pair of
the body re-sculpturing pumps could be successfully
brought about, all the time allocation hassles involved
in managing the usages of a single pair of heels could
be alleviated in one fell swoop.

	So, though he didn't hold out much hope, Paul
figured, 'What the hell!', in the off chance he might
succeed, he could, at very least, give the acquisition
of another pair of body re-vamping heels a try.

	All that afternoon, Paul was ancy as all get out.
Time seemed to dragged by, seemingly slowing more and
more with the passage of each and every hour.  Ed, who
tended to picked up on other people's mood swings,
endeavored to avoid any problems that his partner's
apparent ill temper might have unintentionally
engendered and so, wisely keep as low a profile as he
could manage under the circumstances imposed on the two
of them by the limited space of the kiosk they were,
for considerable portion of the afternoon, sequestered
within.

	 Uncharacteristically, Paul's afternoon
demonstration seminar was, for all practical purposes,
a disaster in the making.  Murphy's Law reigned
supreme, as damn near everything that could go wrong,
did go wrong.  When he wasn't grossly mis-speaking
himself, he was stammering, groping - mutton-mouthed -
for the correct terminology to use.  And when he wasn't
groping for the correct terminology to use, he was
erroneously toggling the wrong switch or twisting the
wrong dial or inserting the wrong test cord into the
incorrect jack on the fiber optic test set he was so
lamely endeavoring to demonstrate.

	Trouble was: no matter what he did or didn't do,
Paul couldn't get the all to vivid memories of what had
occurred on the previous evening out of his disheveled
mind.  Try as he might, he kept thinking about those
pervasive and excruciating pleasurable multi-orgasmic
interludes he had experienced as a female; knowing,
with a sheer and utter certainty, that he wouldn't rest
ease until he - as a she - once again lay cozily
enveloped in the deliciously enchanting rapture of the
self-induced, self-contained warm-fuzzies of post-
orgasmic bliss.

	Luckily, a purchasing agent from one of the larger
and more prosperous Baby Bell operating companies saw
some genuine merit in a few of special features that
had been incorporated in the revised model of test set
that Paul had been so ineptly demonstrating and, with
out batting an eye, placed an order for ten units;
promising that if the test sets proved to be an asset
in the field and lived up to all his expectations,
Paul's company could expect more such orders to follow.
Paul, who was all to aware that he had been more or
less one lunging it, was absolutely delighted with the
order.

	Fact is: if it wasn't for that lucrative order,
coupled with the promise for additional orders to
follow if the test set in question functioned as
advertised, as inept as Paul's presentation had been,
had word ever gotten back to his company about his
pitiful performance, he'd been a sure and certain
candidate for a first class ass reaming by not only his
immediate supervisor, but his immediate supervisor's
supervisor to boot.

	Right on schedule, round about three thirty, the
crowd milling about the exposition's main exhibition
hall began to rapidly and noticeable thin out, using
their attendance at the high tech trade show as nothing
more than a ruse to head for home far earlier than they
would have otherwise.  Even though the show didn't
officially close down until five o'clock, by four, if
one were to discount the people manning their
respective company's kiosks, the place was a veritable
ghost town.  Paul, fully aware that it had been
anything but a fun day for his cohort to have to
contend with, sincerely apologized for being out of
sorts and continued on to suggest that Ed call it a
day; saying as he did so, that he would take it upon
himself to hang around for the remaining hour; tiding
up the booth and getting everything ready for the
following day, so as to alleviate the need for the two
of them to attend to such matters in morning.  Ed
prudently accepted his team leader's offer, suggesting
as he left that if Paul felt up to it, the two of them
could hook up later that evening for a nightcap at the
motel's rather well frequented lounge.  Paul, keenly
anticipating the supposition that he'd be spending the
entire evening as a amply endowed, crotch creased
member of the fairer sex, casual replied that he might
just do that, knowing that as a stacked and packed
blonde bombshell such a liaison was strictly out of the
question, given Ed's well earned reputation as a first
class, love 'em and leave 'em kind of lothario,
irregardless of the fact that Ed was a married man, not
to mention, the proud and, at times, boastful father of
two adorable, self-willed toddlers.

	As interminable as the preceding hours had seemed,
Paul's last hour at the technology fair was the most
interminable of all.  Eventually though, it drew to a
close and Paul, wasting no time at all, was up and out
of there, much like Meatloaf's famed Bat Out of Hell.

	Arriving back in his room somewhere in and around
the five thirty mark, Paul went right to the phone and
put in a call to the ladies boutique.  The assistant
manager, once she picked up phone, regrettable informed
Paul that one: the stiletto heeled pumps were not one
of their regularly carried lines of footware; and that
two, she had no idea where they had come form;
explaining, in more detail than Paul really wanted to
hear, that, a week or so earlier, while she and one of
her salesgirls had been cleaning out the back room
storage area, she had come across the spiked heels.
They had been, according to the assistant manager, on a
top shelf, tucked in behind some old and badly water
stained clothes hanger boxes and on a whim, since they
weren't regrettable her size, she had elected to use
them in one of her display windows.

	Paul went on to inquire about the possibility of
the boutique's carrying a line of such shoes prior to
the assistant manger's association with the shop,
hoping and praying that there might be an old invoice
still on file which might give him a clue as to where
the heels had come from in the first place.  Here
again, the assistant manager dashed his hopes by going
on to say that she been a salesgirl when the boutique
first opened and, to the best of her recollection, she
couldn't remember them having ever carrying that
particular style of shoe.  'Had they,', she quickly
informed Paul, 'I probably would have purchased a
couple pairs, in several different colors, for
myself.'.

	Paul, grasping at straws, followed up by asking
the assistant manager if she knew who had occupied the
store prior to the boutique's opening, only to be told
that no one had.  The boutique had opened when the mall
had.

	Aware that Paul was far from satisfied with her
answers, the boutique's assistant manager, in an effort
to bring the call to a conclusion, requested Paul's
home address and telephone number; saying as she did
so, that if she ran across anything - anything at all -
that might aid him in his quest to locate a similar
pair of heels, she'd be more than happy to get in touch
with him.

	Paul, well aware that his trying to locate another
pair of magically infused opera pumps was little more
than an exercise in futility, profusely thanked the
boutique's assistant manager for all her help and,
feeling like he had given it his best shot, terminated
the call.

	A glance at his room's clock/radio confirmed the
fact that it was still a little to early for Paul to
put in a call to his wife, given the fact that it took
Janice almost a full hour for her afternoon commute
home from work.  So, since he had a little time on his
hands, Paul got undressed, hung up his suit and tie and
proceeded on to take a quick, refreshing shower.
Toweling himself off and applying an ample supply of
deodorant glee to his underarms, Paul climbed back into
the very same jeans and sweater ensemble that he had
been wearing on the previous evening when he first went
and got himself all girlified.  Then, in preparation
for the change he was planning to engendered
immediately following his promised call to his wife, he
made a fast act of procuring the spiked heels from
where he had - that very morning - so prudently stashed
them.  Next, knowing that he still had a minute or two
to dicker away, Paul, having already placed the pumps
on the bed beside the spot he'd be occupying when he
made his call home, took his room's key card, his
wallet, rental car keys, spare change, pocket knife,
cylindrical lip balm cartridge and other such sundry
pocket paraphernalia and placed them in a nice, but
none to neat little pile, right up alongside of the
previously positioned high heels.

	Sitting down between the pillows and the heels,
Paul, once again cautioning himself to say nothing
about the heels or what they had done to him, picked up
the phone and, dialing nine to access an outside line,
placed the call.  Delighted with the fact that his wife
answered the phone shortly after its' third ring and
wasn't still out on the road somewhere, contending with
the all the hassles of rush hour traffic, Paul entered
into the pleasantries of his damn near daily, out of
town to home, check-in call with his wife, just to make
doubly sure that he was kept abreast of anything that
he needed to be kept abreast about.

	Five minutes later, having exchanged their normal,
though never the less, very sincere and loving fond
adieus, Paul bide Janice a goodnight, sleep tight and
don't let the bed bugs gnaw on you and, having done so,
proceed on to longingly placed the phone's receiver
back in its' cradle/receptacle.  Then, with that
attended to, Paul rotated his torso about and, picking
up the pumps, set them gentle on the floor, so that
they resided directly in front of him.  Starting with
his left foot and proceeding directly to his right one,
Paul raised first one leg and then the other, and
slipped those hairy, ungainly, manly constituted feet
of his into the satin-lined confines of the extremely
petite appearing stiletto heeled pumps and began to
look on in awe and anticipation as the telltale signs
of enticing femininity began to sweep so enchantingly
upwards, re-sculpting his body in a most distinctive
and male libido torquing way.

	All through out the day, Paul's sense of
unrequited horniness was seething, overtly anxious to
be given its' free reign.  And because it was, with the
very first noticeable indication of Paul's forthcoming
physical makeover, his manly couched libido, primed,
ready and eager as it was,  went into a frantic state
of balls to the walls over-drive, which, in turn, fired
the proper synapses, that in their turn, informed his
penis to begin to horde the ample blood supply that was
even then, being diverted to it.

	However, long before a full erection could be
established, Paul's penis had been efficiently and,
from Paul's rather unique perspective as the sexual
changee, erotically supplanted by the orgasmic
engendering nub of an extremely sensitized clitoris,
which - getting specific here - was snugly nestled
within the forward lip-folds of the satinized swath of
a thoroughly soaked, love-juice lubricated vagina.

	Struggling hard against the damn near omnipresent
urge to reach down and insert his hand within the
confines of the jeans, panty hose and bikini briefs
that his femininely re-configured loins were even then
trussed up in, so that he could grope and finger-fuck
the livin' shit out of his herifying self, Paul,
consciously aware that his waist had slimmed, his hips
had splayed and his love-handle flanked tummy had both
tucked and flattened out in a most mind blowing, male
libido enticing manner, gazed downward, only to behold
twin, conical, teat surmounted mounds begin to distend
themselves outwardly from his formerly manly chest.

	Several wild palpitations of his all to newly
feminized heart after that, Paul, who could feel the
muscles of his arms undergoing their own targeted brand
of emasculation, felt the oh so gentle weight of those
golden, full bodied, beautifully flowing new tresses of
his, fall upon his shoulders, ere they lengthened and
began to sensually and ever so seductively cascade down
along the subtle arching run of his deliciously re-
sculptured backbone.

	Paul's hands, or, more specifically, the
fingernails of Paul's hands, lengthened and delicately
tampered, taking on an eye-catching, well manicured,
silver-white frosty satin sheen in the process,
heralding the culmination of the heel induced
transsexualizing process.

	Oblivious to the fact that his mannerisms did not
evidence any of the transitory awkwardness that they
had briefly, though obviously been infused with the
night before, Paul(a), with all the charm and grace
exhibited by a premiere ballerina, rose ever so
alluring to his feet.  Eager to the nth degree to get
another narcissistic, full body overview of his
herified self, Paul(a), with hips provocatively swaying
to and fro, sashayed over to bathroom door and the full
length mirror that was affixed to its' outer, sink-nook
facing surface.

	Though it took the full arsenal of his will power
and then some, Paul(a) managed by those non-existent
hairs of his chinny chin chin and those new little BCHs
(blonde cunt hairs) of his to keep from working his
newly herified self into the crassly motivated, though
extremely pleasurable orgasmic preamble of self-
engendered foreplay.  That afternoon, having already
made up his mind to have another go at the heels and
the physical femininity that donning them brought
about, Paul(a), after one hell of a lot of soul-
searching, decided that if he was going to keep messing
around with the heels, sooner or later he was going to
have to face the prospect of going out in the public-
eye as the a fully functioning member of the opposite
sex and so, opted to take the bull by the proverbial
horns, ride rough shod over the ignominy that such an
ordeal would entail and tackle that chore A.S.A.P.,
before he lost the nerve to do so.

	Knowing that he might lose his resolve and there
by chicken out, Paul, though reasonable hungry when he
left the exhibition hall, didn't stop off to grab
something to eat for diner on his way back his motel
room.  Basically, he wanted to force the issue.

	So, after a good five minutes of narcissistically
couched self-appraisal, which was conservatively laced
with almost one to many erogenous titty swirls and
upper, inner thigh massages that severely threatened,
on several rather tentative occasions, to be his
undoing, Paul(a), once again exercising that finely
honed iron will of his, managed to postpone the
inevitable, first of several, self-induced orgasmic
interlude that had been carefully planned to occur ere
his night as a functioning female was a done deal.

	Returning to the bed, Paul(a) found the black,
heel matching, mid-sized purse he rightly presumed
would be there.  Checking its' contents to make sure he
- as a she - had everything he needed, such as his
room's door unlocking keycard, his rental car's keys
and the rest of the pocket paraphernalia he usually
carried, Paul(a) opened the unquestionably feminized
version of his wallet and checked several of the
picture equipped ID cards that were contained within.
Each one, as they had the night before, in one fashion
or another, proclaimed Paul(a) to be a married, twenty
four year old, blonde haired, blue eyed, Caucasian
female, who weighed one hundred and seventeen pounds
with a height of five foot seven inches.

	Retaining the keys to his rental car, Paul(a)
stuffed everything else back into the purse and slung
its' dual straps over his shoulder.  Once that was
achieved, he, as the gorgeous piece of feminine
topography that he had once again so resplendently
become, sauntered over to the door and, upon placing
his hand on its' lever-action door handle, paused.
Doing so, Paul(a), in a conscious effort to purge his
herified self of the mounting sense of brooding
trepidation that he - as a she - was beginning to
experience, inhaled deeply and then, slowly exhaled.
Aware that were he - as the sheling that he had become
- to postpone doing what he proposed on doing a moment
longer, he might well lose his resolve, Paul(a) flicked
that trim and nimble new wrist of his and, as fear
began to grip that herified heart of his, stepped
boldly, if not a tad bit brazenly, out into the
hallway.

	Walking briskly, but not what one might call
hurriedly and, though he might vehemently argue the
point, Paul(a), by in large, succeeded in adopting a
very nonchalant appearing bearing as he passed along
the corridor.  Navigating the hallway, Paul(a)'s spike
heel shod foot-falls carried him in due course into the
motel's lobby, where upon he took noted of a easel
displayed placard that advertised the acoustic, singer-
songwriter duo who were, as its' legend proclaimed,
scheduled to be performing that very evening in the
motel's generally well attended lounge area.  Paul(a),
who played a fairly respectable folk-style acoustic
guitar himself and had in fact, heard the couple play
on several prior occasions when he had been in town
before, found that he had really enjoyed hearing them
play, and because he had, made a mental note to stop by
and listen for awhile before he returned to his room
and proceeded on to once again climb into bed, for the
express purpose of getting it on with his herified
self.

	Walking to his rented auto, Paul(a), who was
dealing with a bad case of the prickly skin inducing
heebiejeebies unlocked the driver's door and promptly,
climbed in behind its' wheel.  Odd, though he knew he -
as a he - was a good five inches taller in his male
persona, Paul(a) only had to adjust the seat forward
one notch, instead of the three or four he had assumed
he would.  Then it hit him.  Though he was noticeable
shorter as the physical embodiment of an amply endowed
young woman, given the fact that females, as a rule,
have shorter torsos than males, his legs were damn near
as long as they had been when he had been a swinging
dick of red bloodied American male.  Taking another
second out to adjust the vehicle's rear-view mirrors,
Paul, having fastened his seat belt, twisted the key
and there by, fired up the engine.

	Aware that his ultra feminized body offered an
omnipresent, readily accessible and thoroughly
compelling distraction to that staunchly male libido of
his, Paul(a) exercised extreme caution as he proceed
out of the parking lot and entered the thinning out
evening traffic that was proceeding briskly along the
main thoroughfare.

	All throughout the drive, Paul(a) engaged in a
running and heated debate with his herified self as to
whether or not going to the mall as drop dead gorgeous
female was such a good idea in the first friggin'
place.  Aware that he - as a she - would feel as
conspicuous as hell walking around in this heel induced
feminine form of his, Paul(a) question and re-questions
both his motives and his resolve.  Knowing that his
manly sense of pride was going to take a real brow-
beating, Paul(a) wasn't at all sure that he could
convincingly pull the girl thing off.  Though he
logically knew that no one would be the wiser, he - as
the she that the heels had turned him into - couldn't
quite shake the ominous and omnipresent feeling that
everyone would know that while he looked like a girl,
moved like a girl, sounded like a girl, he wasn't a
girl, but rather, a guy decked out in some sort of
feminine, full bodied, hidden zippered zoot-suit.

	On several occasions, Paul(a), who was letting the
dreaded heebiejeebies get to him, found his herified
self on the verge of calling the whole mall escapade
off; chickening out and in so doing, turning his rental
car around and, without passing go or collecting the
obligatory and purely hypothetical two hundred dollars,
returning to his motel.  Then, once there, once he - as
a she - was safely and securely sequestered back inside
of the womb of his motel room, calling and ordering a
pizza to be delivered.  However, each and every time
Paul(a) entertained the notion of calling it quits, his
good sense, coupled with that iron will of his, kicked
in and bullied up his resolve.

	Knowing that his manly sense of pride would be
severely assaulted all throughout his stay at the mall,
Paul(a), who had re-committed his herified self to give
operating out in the public-eye in his dick teaser
special motif a go, girthed those femininely re-vamped
loins of his and proceed on his way.

	Fifteen minutes or so after leaving his motel,
Paul(a), having no trouble what so ever driving in a
pair of needle thin stiletto heeled pumps, pulled into
the parking lot of the very same mall that played host
to the woman's boutique from which he had - on what he
thought to be nothing more than a casual, albeit
capricious whim - purchased the heels from on the
previous day.  Having no intentions of re-visiting the
boutique he had been placing calls to all throughout
the afternoon, Paul(a), who, as a man fitted out with a
female's attention garnishing, bodacious, bod of most
becoming body, was feeling as self-conscious and
conspicuous as all get-out, made straight for the
mall's upper mezzanine and its' fairly extensive food
court.

	After a moment of indecision, Paul(a)'s taste buds
decided that a culinary change was in order and so,
entered one of those mall based Italian fair
franchises.  Picking up a tray and the obligatory
napkin wrapped set of plastic flatware, Paul(a), when
it became his turn to place an order, requested a
serving of meat sauce topped lasagna, a slice of garlic
bread and a large Diet Coke.  Paying, Paul(a), with
tray in hand, proceeded to occupy a booth situated
about half way along the right hand side of available
booths.  As he ate, Paul(a), via the surreptitious use
of the mirror paneled wall, became uncomfortable aware
that he - as a she - was indeed the focal point of
quite a few of his fellow patrons' scrutiny.  A quartet
of, what he assumed to be, some very immature, over
testosteroned, college aged boys, who weren't doing
much to hide the fact they were ogling Paul(a), like up
one scintillating side and down the succulent other,
while at the same time offering their companions snide,
ribald remarks about what they would like to engage in
with him - as the embodiment of most delectable and
desirable her - were they ever blessed with such a rare
and libido torquing opportunity.

	Initially, Paul(a) was unnerved and perturbed by
the crass attention he, in his girl motif, was
garnishing.  His first impulse was to get up, walk over
to their booth and give them a good piece of his
thoroughly manly mind.  However, once he took a minute
out to contemplate his very unusual situation, Paul(a),
well aware that had he still been of a similar age, and
had he been sitting with a couple of his old neighbor
buddies, though he doubted if he and his compatriots
would have been so blatantly obnoxious about it as
these smucks were being, he had to confess to his
herified self that he and his cronies probably would
have been behaving in a somewhat similar fashion.

	'Sometimes,', Paul(a) internally speculated,
'logic can be a real pain in the ass!  Or... in this
particular instance... given this all new and
thoroughly feminized body of mine... a real pain in the
derriere...'

	Then, all of a sudden, Paul(a)'s lecherous young
admirers began to get a little bit to boisterous with
their licentious and vulgarly couched comments and, to
Paul(a)'s surprise, he found that chivalry, though
somewhat suppressed and daunted by the oppressive,
First Amendment affronting dictates of political
correctness, was far from dead.  An elderly gentleman,
who had heard one to many crass comments being directed
at Paul(a) to suit his conservative sense of proper
decorum, actually got up from the booth he was
occupying and, upon approaching the boys' booth,
proceed to give them a thorough lambasting; instructing
them, in no uncertain terms, to mind their Ps and Qs
and to stop carrying on like a bunch of uncouth
hooligans when they were out in public.

	Oddly enough, surprising the shit out of Paul(a)
in the process, not one of the young college aged boys
uttered a single, solitary word of protest.  Well aware
that they had perhaps gone a tad bit to far in their
off-color and offensive jesting, they just sat there,
humbled, with eyes downcast, doing nothing to challenge
or deter the harsh words of chastisement that the
elderly old gentleman was so vehemently lavishing upon
them.

	Then, when the feeble, cane assisted, white haired
gent was finished saying what he had to say, the boys,
upon his strongly couched suggestion, got up, dumped
their trash and returned their trays and then, when all
that was said and done, meekly approached the booth
Paul(a), resplendent in his feminine form, was then
occupying.  Gaining Paul(a)'s attention with a simple,
softly spoken, "Excuse us, ma'am.', the boys offered
Paul(a) their sincerest apologies.  Then, once they
accomplished that, the boys glanced back over their
shoulders and sought out the elderly gentleman's
approval.  Receiving it with a slight, but yet
noticeable nod of the white haired man's head, the
boys, knowing that they had worn out their welcome, as
one, turned on their heels and promptly beat feet out
of the restaurant.  Paul(a), taking a last sip of his
Coke, slipped the straps of that purse of his onto his
shoulder and, taking his trash laden tray with him, got
up.   Then, once he had disposed of both trash and
tray, he - sashaying that pert and perky enticingly
rounded tush of his off to beat the friggin' band -
went over any profusely thanked the elderly gentleman
for his kind and thoughtful intervention.  Then, though
it rankled the shit out of his manly ego for doing so,
Paul(a), feeling that the old fellow deserved some kind
of reward for doing what he had just gone and done,
rode rough shod over his manly sense of pride and bent
over and lightly planted an endearing kiss on the
kindly old duffer's wrinkled brow, before turning and
exiting the restaurant his own herified self.

	Back out on the mall's upper concourse, Paul(a),
who was keenly aware that those new, feminine looks of
his were turning heads, male ones in libido driven
appreciation and, to a somewhat lesser degree, catty,
jealous female ones as well, headed off to find his
herified self a book store to leisurely browse.
Careful to avoid the ladies boutique from which he had
purchased the spiked heeled pumps he was wearing,
Paul(a) managed to locate the first of two nationally
known book sellers that he knew, from prior experience,
to be located within the mall.  Entering one, he made a
beeline for the discount book bins, hoping to find a
formerly expensive hardback or two to add to collection
of reference books.

	Luck was with him, for right on top of the pile
was a large, coffee table sized picture book on famous
shipwrecks from all around the world, priced at a
quarter of its' original suggested retail price.
Paul(a), who had been eyeing up the very same edition
for quite sometime, scarfed it up immediately.  Then,
when nothing else tickled his fancy, he checked out the
history section before moving on to the back, right
hand corner of the store and the shelves which
contained a rather representative conglomeration of
both the scifi and adult fantasy selections.

	Having been in the damn near omnipresent state of
some sort of simmering and pervasive horniness every
since he had first slipped on the heels on the previous
evening, save for the time he had been sound asleep or
the three times he had been delightfully engrossed in
the mind boggling contemplation of the warm-fuzzies of
post-orgasmic, female bliss, Paul(a) took advantage of
the moment.  Screened from prying eyes as he - as a
scintillating she - was, by several rows of intervening
book-shelves, once again reached up with his free hand
and, cupping the underside of one of those erotically
re-sensitized, areola enhanced, ample new chest
protrusions of his, employing a slow, teasing,
clockwise rotation of his thumb, played a quick and
deliciously semi-satisfying game of titty tweak and
swirl with his herified, baby suckling certified,
physiognomy.  Then, upon casually looking up and
realizing that there was one of those nefarious,
charcoal colored, plastic, spherical domed security
camera housing mounted on the ceiling's underside,
located - center aisle - in the rear portion of the
book store, Paul(a), hoping and praying that his crass
act of sexual self-simulation hadn't been caught on the
shop's security tap and, reacting much like the
axiomatic kid who got caught with his hand crammed down
inside the parentally verboten cookie jar, ceased and
desisted what he had been doing to that newly enhanced
and fully feminized titty-whitty of his posthaste.

	Paul(a), who had been unconsciously and
clandestinely engaging in brief, semi-satisfying games
of grab-tush with his herified self every since he had
donned the heels that evening, once again severely
chastised himself to knock it off, before he - as the
she that he had become - got caught engaging in such an
indecent act and so, embarrassed the livin' shit out of
his herified self in the process.

	Trouble was, those new chest mellows of his,
though trussed up in their very own satinized, rear
hooked, twin cupped, independent suspension system,
were a constant reminder of the full blown state of
pure, unadulterated femininity that those magical high
heels had so sensually imposed upon him.  Each time he
took a step, or twisted his torso about, those
erotically sensitized mammaries of his jiggled or
jangled.  And when they did, Paul(a)'s arousal quotient
was tweaked anew, making it all the harder for him - as
a bodaciously ensconced her - to resist those damn near
omnipresent urges for immediate self-gratification.

	Hell!  Just strolling by a store front and
casually catching a quick and short lived glimpse of
his own ultra feminized reflection sauntering by was
enough to get those new vaginal love juices of his
gushing to beat the friggin' band.

	Trouble was: Paul(a) found that he was thoroughly,
albeit perversely, relishing the intensely sexual
sensations he was  engendering within his herified
self.  Also, though it threw him for a loop at first,
he found that he - as a she - was beginning to get a
real kick out of the political incorrect and
condescending considerations that a whole shitload of
men were affording him - as a her.  Paul(a), though it
rankled the hell out of his manly ego the first time or
two it happened, found that he was beginning to take a
real shine to the way men went way out of their way to
open doors and allow him to courteously pass through
first.  He also found himself perversely getting a kick
out of the various courtesies that some men afforded
him as the embodiment of an amply endowed, sexually
curvacious young and exceedingly alluring member of the
Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice Club.

	However, while Paul(a) found that he was indeed
flattered by almost all of the attention that his
magically imposed body was garnishing for him - as a
full fledged her - he found himself at times annoyed,
or even irritated and, though it only occurred on a few
sparse occasions, unnerved by some of the more vulgarly
couched and therefore, ego-threatening attention his
femininely made-over body was garnishing for him.

	For instant, where the incident with the four
young fellows at the restaurant had annoyed him, to,
shall we say, the nth degree, when this obese,
unkempted, disreputable, grungy and grimy looking,
grossly tattooed, leather clad, chain totting, chrome
studded dog collared, Harley Davidson want-to-be of a
skin-headed, macho-asshole of a certifiable sleazebag
feel in behind him and started to dog his path along
the mall's upper concourse, Paul(a), feeling as if the
leather clad slimeball  was going to put the move on
him at any moment, felt a sense of dread, the like of
which he had never - Ever! - felt before.  Uncertain as
to how to handle the situation, Paul(a), on the brink
of experiencing a first class, sleazebag induced panic
attack, prudently ducked into one of those glamor photo
studios which have begun to crop up in malls all over
the place.  Hoping and praying that the biker bastard
wouldn't one: follow him into the studio and two:
wouldn't opt to just wait Paul(a) out, so that he could
resume shadowing Paul(a) once he - as the shapely dick
teaser that he had magically become - eventually exited
the shop, Paul(a), in an concerted effort to extend his
time spent within the studio, began to browse around,
scooping out the various pictures that were
calculatedly displayed upon the walls.  Then, when he
had completed a full examination of the extremely well
done photos that were on display, Paul(a), who was
still a far from ready to chance exiting the place for
fear of the scurfy scuzball being still out there on
the mezzanine, waiting to re-engage the scintillating
femme fatale that Paul, via the donning of the stiletto
heels, had become, Paul(a) prudently moved to the
counter area and began flipping through one of several
studio provided portfolios that clearly demonstrated
the fact that the studio's staff seemed to be able to
work wonders on a patron's appearance with nothing more
than a flattering hairdo makeover, some correctly
applied and feature enhancing makeup, the proper outfit
and just the right, camera pleasing pose.

	Paul(a) found his herified self intrigued.  The
digital pictures he had taken of his herified self on
the previous evening had been okay.  Amateurish, but
never the less, okay.

	Then, just as he was pondering the possibility of
availing his herified self of the studio's rather
unique services, so he could obtain a first rate
picture of himself as an exquisitely sculptured and
amply endowed herself, the studio's manager, who had
taken note of both Paul(a)'s interest and his stunning,
drop dead gorgeous appearance, approached Paul(a) and
made him an offer that Paul(a) couldn't, after some
additional persuasion, find it in his herified heart of
hearts to refuse without at least some thoughtful
consideration.

	The deal the studio's manger offered Paul(a) was
simple.  If Paul(a) would allow the studio to use his
pictures in local promotional ads advertising the
studio, Paul(a)'s photo session would be absolutely
free of charge.  And, as an extra incentive, the
studio's manager, noting Paul(a)'s initial reluctance
to accept his offer, informed Paul(a) that he wouldn't
merely double the amount of photos included in their
normally offered, high end line package deal, but that
he'd be more than happy to triple them, implying that
if Paul(a) found that he - as a she - liked a few of
the pictures in particular, he'd be more than happy to
reproduce as many Paul(a) desired.

	Though Paul(a) took a tad bit more persuading, the
studio's manager, informing Paul(a) that the sweater
and jean ensemble he was decked out in at the time
looked absolutely terrific on him and would therefore
work out perfectly for the photo shoot, and with a
little extra friendly prodding provided by one of the
studio's spunky young beautician slash photographers,
who had been surreptitiously eavesdropping on the
conversation Paul(a) was having with her manager and
couldn't quite restrain herself form chipping in with
her own two cents worth of advice, finally did the
trick and won Paul(a) over.  A moment later, with all
the proper paper work judiciously taken care of,
Paul(a) was usher into one of the studio's back rooms
and, since his makeup didn't require any touch up work
what so ever, thanks to the marvelous magic of those
remarkable transsexualizing heels he was wearing,
without any delays, the manger, taking personal charge
of the photo shoot himself, began directing Paul(a) to
do this, that and the other thing; posing the blonde
haired bombshell that Paul had become in such a way as
to enhance the over all effect of the pictures that
were being taken of him - as the delectable sexy her
that he had so magically and mystically become.

	As promised by the manager, twenty five minutes
after entering the studio, Paul(a), with the assurance
that he could drop by and pick up his photo packet any
time after six o'clock on the following day, was back
on the mall's upper concourse and to his delight, the
fat, leather clad, chain rattling, macho-asshole of a
overtly tattooed, hog straddling Neanderthal was no
where to be seen.

	Checking the distinctly feminized version of his
formerly massive and manly, bezel equipped divers
watch, Paul(a) realized that he still had a fair amount
of time to kill ere he - as the she the magical spiked
heels had turned him into - headed back to his motel,
in plenty of time for him to catch the opening set of
that acoustic duo that he had so enjoyed hearing on
previous stays.

	Earlier, upon entering the book store where he -
as an amply endowed and lovely legged she - had
purchased the discounted book on shipwrecks, Paul(A)
had taken note of the release of the latest installment
in a massive, multi-volume adult fantasy tale of
apocalyptical daring-do that had more main and
secondary characters then you could shake a stick at
(Dangling participles be damned).  Trouble was, he
wasn't a member of that particular franchise's book
club and therefore, had he purchased the book, he would
not have gotten a break on the suggested retail
purchase price.  However, if his memory served him
right about the mall's other book sellers, and if his
wife had renewed their preferred readers club
membership as she said she had, Paul(a), as a card
carrying member of the aforementioned book store's
preferred readers club, was entitled to a somewhat
substantial fifteen percent discount, which, he hoped,
would be applied to the ten percent discount the book
seller usually applied during the first month or so of
a new hardback's release.

	So, given all of that malarkey revolving around
book stores, discounts and preferred readers cards,
Paul(a), aware that he had some time to kill before
returning to his rental car and heading back over to
his motel, began to leisurely make his herified way to
far end of the mall and the escalator that would, in do
course, provide him access to the mall's lower level
and hopefully, the mall's other nationally known book
sellers.  As he provocatively sashayed that pert and
perky re-sculptured derriere of his off, flaunting
those new femininely wares of his in the process,
Paul(a), who was keenly aware of all the head-turning,
chiefly male, and therefore, libido driven attention
that that gorgeous new physique of his was attracting
in droves, endeavored, as best as he - as a she -
could, to keep the knowledge that he was indeed the
focal point of all that unsolicited, though far from
unwarranted, attention from phasing him.

	Trouble was, that was far easier said then done.

	Though he - as a she - hide it well, Paul(a), who
was neither an introvert nor an extrovert, but like
most people, nestled somewhere comfortable in between
the two, wasn't in any way, shape or form at ease with
all the attention that that new, bodacious body of his
was attracting.  No matter what he did or didn't do,
Paul(a) felt as conspicuous as all get out.

	Women, he could handle.  Even though some flashed
him the hairy, contemptuous, reproachful eyeball of
unbridled disdain and others, the green hued eye of
unbridled envy, Paul(a), knowing how catty and
hypocritical some women could be, took such appraisals
as nothing more than backhanded compliments; knowing,
with a sheer and utter certainty that if those women
looked even half as good as he - as a she - did, they'd
be flaunting their assets (or should that be: asses)
off as well.

	Men, as mentioned before, were another matter
altogether.  Most of their appraisals, though they
tended to grate abrasively on that staunchly male ego
of his, Paul(a), keenly aware of the libido torquing
narcissistic effect that even a fleeting glance of his
own feminized reflection repeatedly engendered,
weathered such scrutiny fairly well.  Paul(a), through
the prima facie evidence gained from years and years of
first hand experience, knew only to well that men, who
were not of the limp-wristed, wispy voice modulated
variety, like to feast their eyes on pretty women.
Conceding the fact that if a woman, who came even
remotely close to fitting the exquisite physical
parameters of the femme fatale that he himself had
become as a direct result of donning those magically
infused stiletto heeled pumps of his came into his
peripheral view, he, as a health, red bloodied American
male, would feel, at the very least, obligated to give
her the once over.

	Hell!  Even though Paul(a) was - physically
speaking -  all girl his herified self at the time, he
was in no way, shape or form immune to the libido
pleasing enticements offered by other women's looks.
Over and over and over again, as he - as a she -
casually strolled through the mall, an attractive women
would pass into his purview and Paul(a), in sort of a
clandestine, knee-jerk, lickety split sort of way that
most, if not damn near all, normal heterosexual males
have managed, by hook or by crook, to add to their
arsenal of clandestine, women ogling techniques, made a
quick, surreptitious appraisal and subsequent to that
assessment, proceeded on to make a mental notation of
the aforementioned woman's sexual arousal quotient;
assigning her a number designation between the one of
hagdom and the legendary, ever elusive and damn nearly
unattainable ten of earthly goddesshood.

	In other words, while Paul(a) was, to say the
least, unnerved and therefore, rendered extremely self-
conscious by all the attention his ultra feminized bod
of a body was attracting, being a man himself and
knowing, as only a man does, that those new girlish
looks of his did indeed warrant such overt male
interest, Paul(a), while annoyed, couldn't find in his
herified self to feel overly affronted when some
swinging dick took a moment to ogled him up one
alluring side and down the scintillating and seductive
other.  However, stalking him, as that ogreish biker
bastard had, was another matter altogether.  Paul(a),
aware that he - as a she - had to draw the line
somewhere, did.  Looking was okay.  Stalking was not.
And touching - Paul(a) was adamant! - was and forever
would be strictly verboten.

	Should some son of a bitch of an over
testosteroned, lewd, crude and lascivious bastard take
it upon himself to try to lay his greasy paws on Paul -
when deck out in his ultra feminized Paula motif - Make
no never mind about it! - Paul was adamant, that that
poor, over testosteroned son of a bitch of a bastard
would get his comeuppance in no uncertain terms.  Paul
- when Paula - was not about to be manhandled by
anybody.

	Though Paul(a) rarely paid more than casual,
passing attention to shops that specifically catered to
women's apparel and related items, save for the few
yearly occasions when he went shopping with the express
purpose of picking up a present or two for his wife,
for, shall we say Christmas, or her birthday, or their
anniversary, or Mothers Day and other such
circumstances, that evening, as he - as she that he had
become - strolled so fetchingly through the mall, with
the express purpose of locating that other book store,
Paul(a) found his herified self taking particular note
of the various women's fashions that were on display,
all the while playing a mental game of I wonder how I
would look trussed up in that get-up.  Shortly before,
when he had been riding down the escalator, Paul(a) had
spied what he kidding referred to as a first class
honey of a collectible, who just happened to be decked
out in this real eye-pleasing, libido torquing,
horniness engendering, little mini-skirted, hauteur
topped business ensemble, riding up the escalator's
ascending side and that got him to wondering how he
would look were he - as a she - wearing something
similar.  Then, right smack dab in the midst of his
ponderings, Paul(a) recalled the incident with that
newly femininized hair of his and how it had
miraculously gone from a rich and bountiful brunette to
an extremely flattering honey golden hue.

	'What...', he endeavored to jar his memory, '...I
wonder, caused my hair to change color like it did?

	'As I recall...', Paul internally mused to his
herified self, '...I had just made some sort of off the
wall comment about how it was such a shame... given
this thing I have about blondes... that... as a girl...
I wasn't one myself and them - Slam!  Bamb!  Thank you
ma'am! - I somehow went and got turned into one...

	'Maybe... just maybe... given the way these heels
of mine can change a pair of wool socks into a snug
fitting pair of nylon pantyhose... not to mention all
the other changes that they can bring about... y'know,
like changing my cotton undershirts into satin bras and
my underpants into nifty, french-cut bikini panties...
they might be able to bring other changes about as
well.  Maybe... if I were to make a wish... or think
real, real hard about the particular kind of feminine
clothing I'd like this feminized body of mine to be
decked out in... these heels might oblige me... y'know,
and bring about the changes that I desire...'

	'I mean... let's say - For kicks and giggles! -
that I would like to be attired in a black leather
micro mini-skirt... y'know, instead of a pair of faded
blue jeans... maybe... if I were to concentrate real,
real hard and form a mental picture of myself wearing
such apparel... and then beseech these heels of mine to
pretty please bring about the alteration... maybe...
just maybe... they'd bring their magic to bear and do
the deed.

	'I mean... at least it's worth a try!  Isn't it?'

	Knowing that it was, Paul(a) quickly cautioned his
herified self to doggedly resist the urge to experiment
with this new notion of his right then and there,
fearing that if what he expected might really be the
case and that he might be able to mentally influence
the composition and styling of the clothing he was
wearing as a member of the fairer sex, he might royally
screw up and end in the mother of all embarrassing
situations; like frantically scurrying around the mall,
in a balls to the walls effort to get to his rental car
as quickly as possible, due to the fact that he - as
the gorgeous she that he had become - was scandalous
clad in the briefest of skimpy, see-through, body
revealing negliges and a companion pair of black - Sock
it to me! - stiletto heeled pumps.

	Shades of Forbidden Planet.  Instead of monsters
from the id, in Paul(a)'s rather unique case, if his
supposition proved correct and he could indeed
influence the style and composition of his heel
transmogrified female apparel, he - as a she - could
well become the trailer park bimbo... or the White
House strumpet... or the scantily clad whatever from
the id.

	'Hopefully,', Paul(a) told his herified self, 'if
this attire scenario of mine pans out and I fine that I
can directly influence the type of clothing I'll be
decked out in as a woman, I hope and pray that I will
only be able to bring about a change through a
conscious effort on my part.

	'I mean...', Paul(a), his sarcasm showing, 'if
this dirty old man aspiring subconscious of mine can
bring about the same sort of changes... there's no two
ways about it!  I'm up Excrement Run without a proper
means of propulsion!'

	So anyhow, just as he caught sight of the book
store up ahead and off to the right side of the mall's
lower concourse, Paul(a) came to the conclusion that it
would be prudent for him to experiment with the
clothing business later that night, like right after he
got back to the safe sanctuary that his room afforded
him; having listen to a couple of sets preformed by
that acoustic duo he wanted so much to hear again, and
right before undressing and climbing into bed for
another highly contemplated and extremely satisfying
interlude of self-induced, multi-orgasmic female
tomfoolery with his overtly sensitized herified self.

	Procuring the adult fantasy hardback of daring do
that he wanted to purchase from a rather impressive
display set mid-aisle, immediately inside the book
seller's entrance way, Paul(a), aware that he had to
shag tush if he wanted to make it back to his motel
before the duo's opening set, which, according to that
placard he had spied when traversing the motel's lobby,
was scheduled to get underway round about nine, moved
straight off to the store's rather well populated
magazine rack.  There, Paul(a) wasted no time at all in
acquiring both a Playboy and a Penthouse.  Then, on a
whim, he also selected a couple of women's fashion
magazines; hoping that they might provide some
inspiration when it came his to planned experimentation
with the feminine clothing business.

	Paying, Paul(a), aware that he had slightly
exceeded his out of town budget with the purchases he
had made at both of the book stores and would therefore
have to cut corners from there on out, with heels a
clicking and a clacking in his herified wake, made
hasty and resolute tracks for the parking lot and his
rental car.  Sliding in behind the wheel of the
Spartan, compact sedan he had been issued upon his
arrival at the local international airport by the
rental car company his firm had a revolving account
with, Paul(a), who was still seething with an eager and
compelling sense of unbridled horniness, took a second
or so out to drive that horniness of his to a much
higher plateau, by placing one hand on one of those
new, femininely distended boobies of his and the other
in between those luscious and deliciously sensitized
feminine thighs he - as a she - now sported and
proceeded on to play a quick, truncated, narcissistic,
lust-engendering game of grab-tush and titty tweak with
his herified self.

	Arriving back at the motel, Paul(a) made a quick
stop by his room to drop off his purchases and, spurred
on by the insistent urgings of his topped-offed
bladder, availed his herified self of the facilities,
which, in his girl motif, was as ignominious as
ignominious can be, not to mention, as messy as all get
out.

	Taking a leak as a guy was a piece of cake.  No
muss.  No fuss.  And more to the point: no piss residue
running down your inner thigh in the aftermath.

	A guy just pulls it out.  Whizzes.  Shakes it off.
And then, simply puts it back where it belongs.

	 Sitting is optional.

	Sitting, however, as Paul(a) so ignominious came
to realize, wasn't an option if one happened to be a
member in good standing of the Sugar and Spice and
Everything Nice Club.  To facilitate urination, a women
has to sit, due to the fact that, unlike their penis
equipped male counterparts, there was nothing - Not a
blessed thing! - down there to whip out.

	Urinating, for his very first time as a full
fledged, pussy equipped female was for Paul(a), a real
downer.

	Then, once all of that was taken care of, it was
off to the motel's lounge for a night, of what Paul(a)
anticipated would be, some very enjoyable live musical
entertainment.

	The lounge, Paul(a) realized upon entering, was a
big mistake.  While there were other females in
evidence, there weren't many.

	Truth be told, the men out numbered their women
counterparts - Paul(a) guesstimated - by an extremely
lopsided seven or eight or so to one.  And to make
matters worse, save for the two female bartenders and
the lounge's single, solitary waitress, damn near all
the other women Paul(a) saw had male escorts.

	'Shit!', Paul(a), who had come to an abrupt halt
just a step or two inside of the lounge's entrance way,
mentally and severely castigated his herified self.  'I
should have known better!  Most of these guys - Like
me! - are company reps and are in town for the
expressed purpose of staffing the tech show.  And those
that aren't - I'd be willing to bet! - are attending
that multi-media convention their holding over at the
convention hall annex.  Either that, or their members
of that military service group that's stagging their
annual, excuse to go on a first class bender of an
inebriated, free-wheeling, consequences be damned,
prevaricators club of a get-together, that - If my
memory serves me right. - is being held somewhere or
another downtown!

	'Boy, oh boy did I goof!  Big F'in Time', Paul(a)
continued on with his self-direct rebuke, keenly and
ignominiously aware that he - as the gorgeous piece of
feminine topography that he had become as a direct
result of donning those rather spiffy spiked heels of
his - was increasingly becoming the focal point of more
and more the male patron's libido driven attention.

	'Shit!  What the hell do I do now?', Paul(a)
hastily inquired of his herified self as he unknowingly
began to use the tip of index finger of his left hand
to nervously fidget and rotate the distinctly
feminized, slim downed version of his formerly manly,
Celtic designed, lattice-worked, white-gold, wedding
band.

	'Do I turn and beat feet back to my room?  Or, do
I stay and try to make the best out a bad... if not
down right deplorable situation?

	In a stop-gap measure to cover his panic infused
bout with indecision, Paul(a), grappling, pretended to
be searching the crowd, as if he - as the amply
endowed, twenty something appearing blonde bombshell of
a unmitigated dick teaser that he had become - was
looking for a particular someone or someones, 'Come on,
pal!  Everybody and his bother's looking right at you!
Most of 'em - Most likely! - undressing you with their
eyes!  So, get this derriere of your's in gear and get
with the program!

	'What'ya gonna do, old buddy, old pal?  Stand here
all friggin' night and let them lewdly ogle you up one
side and down the other, till some beer breathed
swinging dick gets it in his mind to drag his sad and
sorry ass over here and lay his favorite, God's gift to
women pick-up line on you?  Or, are you going chicken
out; say the hell with it; turn tail and make a beeline
back to your room?  Or... are you going to take the
proverbial bull by the horns; walk over to that want to
be of a bar over there; order a drink and find yourself
some place to park this alluring little tush of yours?

	Paul(a), though he dearly wanted to cut and run,
didn't.  Riding rough shod over his acute sense of
trepidation, Paul(a), tapping into the damn near
depleted reservoir of his resolve, figured that since
he couldn't do a damn thing about all the attention
that his femme fatale of bod of a body was garnishing
for him, he might as well put on a show and so,
sashayed that pert and perky rump of his over to one of
the few unoccupied spaces at the bar; where upon,
bellying up to the bar, managed to easily gain one of
the female bartender's attention - the cute and spunky
little redhead one's - and there by: order his herified
self a frozen - hopefully nerve settling - Pina Colada.

	Cautioning and then, re-cautioning his herified
self to go easy with the amount of alcoholic he - as a
she - might imbibe throughout the course of evening, so
as to not become inebriated and there by put himself in
a precarious situation that might well incur some
unintended consequences, such as, the loss of his new
found virginity, Paul(a), unaware that he did so in a
very provocative manner, took a small - to be damn near
nonexistent - sip of his tasty, rum laced concoction.

	'Shit!', his mind reeled, as he demurely pivoted
about on the stool he had parked that delectably
tantalizing sock-it-ti-me fanny of his upon and began
to once again scooped out the lounge and, to Paul(a)'s
way of thinking, its' mostly dirty old man aspiring
male cliental.  'This is crazy!  Absolutely crazy!

	'I mean... am I seriously out numbered here or
what?

	Feeling as vulnerable and conspicuous as a get-
out, Paul(a) continued to mull over the sticky wicket
of a dastardly situation he had inadvertently landed
his herified self right smack dab in the middle of,
'This sucks!

	'This really sucks....

	'I mean... all these guys have dicks!  Big!  Ugly
veined!  Sperm spouting!  Testicle tethered!  Unkempt
and wiry hair surround dicks!

	'And me!  What have I got?

	'Lucky voluptuous me!  Thanks to these friggin'
high heels, I have been saddled with a handy, dandy,
clitoris equipped, dick garage slash, self lubricating,
penis servicing bay!  Y'know, that a good portion of
these macho assholes assembled here would - I'd be more
than willing to wager! - give not only their right nut,
but their left one as well, to park their proverbial,
sperm spewing, muscle cars inside of - y'know, so they
can rev those libido driven, over testosterone engines
of their's in order to get their rocks off!

	Then, Paul(a), who was beginning to strongly
reconsider what he took to be his lame decision to
remain in the lounge to at least hear the acoustic
duo's first set, recalled a rarely employed theory he
had formed years earlier, back in the bygone days of
yesteryear, before he had met and married the love of
his life, Janice.

	Whether it was true or not, Paul(a), though he had
never been much of a barroom devotee in his younger
days, had come to the conclusion that a woman standing
at the bar was a whole hell of a lot more approachable
than a woman who was seated at a table.

	And so, recalling that unproven theory of his,
Paul(a), who was becoming as ancy as all get-out,
believing that he - as the sexy and curvacious she that
he had been transmogrified into - would be targeted to
be hit on by some swinging dick-head within the next
several minutes or so, began to scan the room,
desperately searching for an unoccupied table to which
he could relocated that pert and perky derriere of his
to.

	One unsuccessful and therefore, frustrating survey
was followed by another.  Then, just when he was ready
to give up the ghost and beat feet back to safe
confines of his motel room, Paul(a) felt a tentative
hand drop lightly on his sweater enshrouded right
forearm.

	Paul(a), as keyed-up as he as a she was, proved,
without the shadow of a doubt, that the old clich,
about how every action engenders an equal and opposite
reaction was right on the money.

	In other words, as soon as Paul(a) felt his
herified self touched, he flinched, drawing that high
heel emasculated arm of his out from under the
offensives point of contact.  And, as he - as a she -
did so, Paul(a) heard a man's voice - a voice he knew
he knew, but couldn't quite place at that rather
frantic and frazzled moment in time - tentatively and
unthreateningly proceed on to inquired, "Excuse me,
miss.  I'm very sorry to have startled you.  But, by
any chance, are you Paul Meadow's niece?"

	Even before he turned that pretty new, golden
framed head of his to confront the slimy, grubby
handed, son of a bitch of a low-life bastard who had
just then and there so ignominiously accosted him - as
the glamorous and vivacious sheling that he had so
mind-blowingly become - wheels clicked in that
fetchingly re-sculptured head of his, indexing that
mental Rolodex he had stored up there somewhere, thusly
providing Paul(a) with both a face and an identity to
fit voice.

	Mentally scrambling to regain an elusive semblance
of the false composure he had adopted to see him
through the ordeal that his new found womanhood imposed
upon his manly adhering ego when out in the public-eye,
Paul(a), aware that he'd have to prevaricate that
scintillating new derriere of his off to beat the
friggin' band, pivoted about on the stool that he - as
a she - was so seductively perched upon; knowing, with
a sheer and utter certainty, that he'd be addressing
none other than his business cohort, Edward G. - for
George - Fallston.

	With a sever case of panic laden trepidation
logarithmically mounting, Paul(a) affixed the sham of a
friendly smile upon his angelic countenance and, with a
voice that reeked with the timbre of a raw and eager
sensuality, so much so that it narcissistically stoked
the simmering fires of his own self-targeted, self-
sustaining sense of seething horniness, gracious
replied, "Why yes, I'm Paul Meadows' niece..."

	"Thought so.", Ed replied rather matter-of-factly.

	"I take it that your uncle wasn't in his room."

	Paul(a), who rarely, if ever, lied, found that his
herified self forced to emulate the last person he
every wanted to emulate, with person being: the Man
from Hopelessness, our nation's recently impeached
Prevaricator in Chief, who, by his own omission:
"...did not have sex with that woman - Monica
Lewinsky...".

	"No...  No, he wasn't..."

	"Oh!", Ed exclaimed.  "I'm sorry.  I plum forgot
to introduce myself.

	"I'm Ed.  Ed Fallston.  And I have the distinct
pleasure of working these out of town trade show gigs
with your uncle."

	Paul(a), aware that it was now his turn to
introduce his herified self, did so, "Nice to meet you
Mr. Fallston.  I'm Paula.  Paula Lawson."

	"Well it's a pleasure to meet you Paula and
please, it's Ed.  Alright?"

	"Sure...", Paul(a) responded with a smile.

	"Tell you what, Paula.  I got here early enough to
secure a table right up front.  So, while the two of us
are waiting for your uncle to put in an appearance, why
don't you join me..."

	Paul(a), feeling as if he had just been granted a
much desired reprieve from being hit on, readily agreed
with Ed's suggestion and so, procuring his Pina Colada
from where it resided on the bar, he demurely  allowed
his partner in crime to escort him over to the table.
Just as they reached Ed's table, Paul(a) took note of
the fact that the performers had finally arrived and
were even then, busily immersed in the demanding
process of preparing for their evening's performance.

	"So tell me Paula, what brings you to this neck of
the woods?"

	"My husband.", Paul(a), feeling none to good about
it, continued to lied that nicely rounded rump of his
off.

	"Oh...", Ed mused.  "And what does this husband of
your's do for a living, Paula?", Ed, who didn't really
give a rat's ass about what Paul(a)'s bogus husband did
or did not do for a living, felt more or less obliged
to inquire.

	"He's a pilot."

	"Commercial or military?", Ed asked, amid a harsh,
ear-piercing squelch of mike-induced feedback.

	"Military.  For the present, the squadron he's
assigned to is stationed over at the Air Force Base."

	"Fighter pilot?", Ed, in an effort to keep the
conversation going, inquired.

	"No... though he'd like to be a jet jockey... he
flys one of those great big C133 transports..."

	Paul(a), feeling none to good about his herified
self for having to adopt the rather shoddy and
deceiving tactics of situational ethics in order to
extricate himself from the rather precarious situation
that his stint as a fully fledged female had, as an
unintended consequence, imposed upon him, continued to
equivocate that sassy little tush of his off as he and
Ed continue to carry on with their conversation as the
acoustic husband and wife duo proceeded to finished up
adjusting their mikes' placement and, from there, moved
to necessary chore of checking the tuning of their
respective instruments.  Then, when everything was in
order, the duo, without any introduction or permeable,
with a flourishing and flamboyant instrumental
introduction that, by in large, achieve the desired
result of gaining their rather rowdy audience's
attention, launched vigorously into their first number
of the evening.

	Paul(a), who had really enjoyed hearing the
couple's music in the past, picking up a few guitar
licks in the process, managed, by the non-existent hair
of that ultra feminized chinny chin chin of his, to put
aside all the crass and carnal cares and woes of his
present and somewhat precarious situation as a
magically femininized male and, for a few rather
fleeting minutes, kicked back and luxuriate in the live
music that was being so skillfully produced upon the
lounge's cramped, and from Paul(a)'s perspective,
beleaguered stage area.

	Even though his damn near omnipresent state of
seething horniness threatened to intrude on his
concentration on several tenuous occasions, Paul(a)
kept both those scandalously alluring baby blues of his
and his manly attuned mind focus on the performers all
throughout the first two numbers of their opening set.
Their third number however, a modern day re-working of
an old ribald folk song, commonly known as 'The
Handsome Cabin Boy', which recounted the lurid tale of
a young, possible high-born lass who wished to go to
sea and because she did, she masqueraded as a young lad
in order to secure a berth on a tall-masted merchantman
and continuing on to recount all the ruckus that ensued
once her bawdy shipmates learned that she wasn't a he
but rather, a she instead and that she had been
impregnated by one of their company, got Paul(a)
sidetracked into once again - for the umpteenth time
since donning the heels on the previous evening -
pondering his own rather convoluted sexual situation.

	While he - as a she - was well aware that the
spiked heels that dangled so provocatively upon those
nylon clad, daintily re-sized feetzie-wheatzies of his
had turned him into a unmitigated narcissist, who's
male mind was in unrestrained love-lust with the ultra
feminized body in which it was so seductively housed,
Paul(a) was still at a loss as to which sexual category
he - in his girl motif - now fit.  Were he - as a she -
to engage in sexual acts with a woman, while the world
at large would indeed classify such interactions as
being strictly in the homosexual camp, Paul(a)
wouldn't.  Given the fact that his mind was still as
manly as it had ever been, such a tryst would be for
him, a purely heterosexual endeavor.  However, were his
worst fears ever realized, and he was somehow - God
forbid! - forced - as a woman - through some nefarious
means, to engage in one form of a sexual interactions
or another with some swinging dick of a man, while
everybody and his brother might think of it as nothing
more than a heterosexual encounter, Paul(a), though it
damn near made him sick to his stomach to contemplate
such a dastardly situation ever occurring, given that
dirty old man aspiring mind of his, he would - without
the shadow of a doubt - classify such a vulgar liaison
as a despicable and therefore, contemptible homosexual
act.

	Trouble was - and Paul(a) held no delusions about
this particular codicil to this transitory, heel
induced femininity of his - while his wife Janice might
get a perverse sort of kick out of having her husband
don the pointy toed stiletto heels so that he could
interact with her in his bodacious girl motif from time
to time, when it came to the subject of any sort of
sexual hanky-panky occurring during those rare times
when he was femmed out to the friggin' max, he knew he
could forget it.  Janice had never and would never
engage in anything that even remotely resembled a
lesbian activity.  While Janice might take pity on Paul
in his feminized form and look the other way so that he
could indulge those narcissistic tendencies that the
donning the heels would no doubt levy upon him - upon
magically being transmogrified into a her -
homosexuality, in any way, shape or form, was, and
forever would be a perversion and therefore, an
anathema to her.

	For the very first time in his life, that
realization about his wife's ardent stand on homosexual
matters, a stand he had strongly supported and agreed
with, did not bode well with Paul(a) at all.  Knowing
how much he had enjoyed finger finagling with certain,
elusive elements of his heel imposed femininized
anatomy, chief among those, that orgasmic engendering
nub of that delightful little clit of his, Paul(a),
much to his chagrin and consternation, was well aware
of the fact that if he was going preserve his
unblemished record of marital fidelity, a record he had
every right to be proud of, he - as a she - would never
- Ever! - experience the unimaginable ecstasy that he
truly believed he would derived were he - here again as
the she the heels could turned him into - to be the
moaning and riving recipient of an unselfish act of
oral sex.

	Though it rankled the living shit out him to admit
it to his herified self, Paul(a) was well aware of the
fact that cunnilingus was not something he - as a she -
could look forward to being on the receiving end of.
While Janice would be more than happy to have him go
down on her, just as long as he performed the act as
his manly self - Paul(a) knew he had no right to expect
his wife to return the favor when he was decked out in
his heel induced Paula physiognomy.

	True, Paul(a) could push the envelope and apply
the precepts of situational ethics to the rather unique
situation he - upon donning the heels - found his
herified self right smack dab in the friggin' middle
of.  Truth be told, Paul - when operating as the
gorgeous femme fatale Paula - could elect to use
several different subterfuges to justify the
unjustifiable.  He could one: adopted the ludicrous
notion that eatin' ain't cheatin'.  Or, he could use
the William Jefferson Clinton/Paul Jones' deposition
defense and say that his being the recipient of oral
sex technically, if not legally, exonerated him from
being considered a participant in a narrowly defined
sexual act, if that is: one could be so bold and so
partisan as to as to go against the grain of news media
propagated, reputedly popular, overtly PC
propagandized, American opinion and classify oral sex
as a sexual act in the first friggin' place.  Y'know,
much the way those dastardly, despicable, insensitive,
unfair, Constitution quoting, Religious Right
influenced, old fogies (Note: Please read old fogies to
mean: contemptible white males) of the Grand Old Party
had this damnable propensity of doing.

	And if he didn't want to go that route, he could
simply say, 'The hell with i!', shit-can his enviable,
unblemished record of marital fidelity and find his
herified self a dyed in the wool, fully certified, card
carrying, balls to the walls beautiful, drop dead
gorgeous, lesbian dyke nymphomaniac to service him in
such a fashion.

	Troubles was, as much as Paul(a) wanted to
experience the unselfish act of cunnilingus as a
female, he didn't believe that he would ever be able to
find a woman who would fit his demanding criteria.
More to the point, on the unlikely chance that he ever
did run across such a unique woman, Paul(a), though
he's be sorely tempted to tell those ethical values of
his to take a hike or to take them and cram 'em some
place where the sun don't shine, when push came to
shove, given how much he both loved and respected his
wife, he knew - for a certainty - that while he might
pull a Jimmy Carter and lust away in that transitory
herified heart of his, he wouldn't jeopardize the
fantastic relationship he had with Janice for anything,
save for possibly, the redemption of his immortal soul.

	However, it struck him while he was sitting there,
mulling over the oral sex issue, that, were he to go
with the situational ethic which boisterously and
smugly proclaimed, in a macho-asshole sort of way, that
eatin' and cheatin' and its' femininely couched
counterpart, with that femininely couched counterpart
being: being eatin' and cheatin' either, Paul(a)
wouldn't have to track down a nymphed-out lesbian dyke
who fit the aforementioned specifications.  He had the
heels.  If they could turn him into seductress, Paul(a)
had every reason to assume that they would likewise
were another man to put 'em on.

	If Paul(a) wanted to go the sixty-nine, lickety-
clit route and engage in a lesbian-like tryst of
reciprocal oral sex, in which he - as a she - would
function as both the provider and the recipient of a
thoroughly invigorating and multi-orgasmic engendering
tongue-lashing, all it would take was a little careful
pre-planning and finding somebody that was both
gullible and horny enough to buy into the bizarre and
perverted deal he would offer them.

	Anytime Paul(a) wished to engage in lesbian sex,
all he would have to do was to don the heels quite a
few hours before he actually planned to do the deed, so
as to build up a rather healthy amount of residual time
spent as a woman once he doffed the pumps.  Then, he
have to find a guy who would be willing to have sex
with him on the asinine condition that prior to
engaging in any sort of sexual hanky-panky, the guy
would have to satisfy a peculiar, if not down right,
perverted quirk of Paul(a)'s.  If the fellow was
amenable to Paul(a)'s request, the two of them would go
to some place private, where upon, Paul(a) would take
off the spiked heels and direct his would be lover to
be so kind as to put them on.  Then, once the guy had
been transsexualized into a girl whom, Paul(a) assumed,
would be every bit as gorgeous as he his herified self
was, Paul(a) would go on to explain that the change
could be only a temporary one and if the guy wanted to
get his old, male body back, he'd have to cooperate and
do everything that Paul(a) directed him to do.  Which,
as one might well imagine, would be to proceed from
that point into some very heated and mutually
satisfying she'in and she'in.

	Then, once Paul(a) enjoyed whatever amount of
multi-orgasmic interludes with his re-sexualized
partner as he - as a she - wished to partake in, and
got those feminine rocks of his off, to preserve his
anonymity, should he elected to do so, all he would
have to do would be to get up, get dressed, reclaim the
stiletto heels and donning them, beat feet.

	No muss.  No fuss.  And more tp the point, no
emotional baggage.  Paul - as Paula - and the swinging
dick who he had - via the high heels' resident magical
where-with-all - turned into a real live, walkin',
talkin', bodacious babe of an unbelievable turned-on,
nymphed-out, fellow, full fledged feminized narcissist,
would have merely served one another's carnal cravings.

	'Hell!', Paul(a) realized.  As Machiavellian as it
was, were he disposed to experimenting around with
something of that admittedly convoluted nature, which,
to reiterate, he most certainly was not, he had the
perfect candidate sitting right there at the table with
him.  Ed, though he managed to hide it well, was
suffering through the emotional doldrums of a rather
messy and costly divorce that not only incurred the
loss of his wife, his two young kids, who were his
pride and joy, a house he had scrimped and saved to
purchase, and, adding insult to injury, his mint
condition, fully self-restored, 63 Mustang Convertible
and Paul(a) just figured that a good romp in the hay,
even if it was as a transitory woman getting on with
another transitory woman, would do wonders to bolster
his partner's rather browbeaten and much assaulted
self-esteem.

	Paul(a), aware that those bawdy, lewd and crude
contemplations of his severely pushed the envelope of
depravity, expanded his fantasizing by continuing on to
suggest to his herified self that if such a liaison
were to prove mutually satisfying, he and his cohort
could really spice up these otherwise tedious, out of
town excursions of their's via the judicial use of the
heels.  With no emotional entanglements what so ever,
to while away the otherwise boring evening hours of
their out of town stays, they could use the heels to
turn themselves into a pair of super-sexy females, for
the express purpose of servicing one another's
narcissistic carnal needs.

	Basically, as Paul(a) hypothetically envisioned
it, were he able to get beyond the control rods of his
own persnickety ethical values and there by, be able to
apply a rather liberal interpretation to the slippery
slope involved in dickering around with the
freewheeling doctrines of situational ethics, the
sexual interaction he was playfully dickering around
with was damn near - but not quite - equivalent to two
grown heterosexual men scratching one another's backs;
save in Paul(a)'s rather convoluted and sexually
debasing scenario, it would be two magically
transsexual heterosexual men - function as ample
endowed and crevasse creased lesbian femme fatales -
licking and sucking on several of the other's key
erroneous zones with the expressed purpose being: to
drive one another into a pillow eating, multi-orgasmic,
no holds bar hissy-fit.

	As crazy as it might sound, as Paul(a) sat there,
deliciously contemplating the never to occur scenario
that tantalizing envisioned a lesbian tryst occurring
between his own spiked heel induced transseualized self
and the gorgeous, feminized re-proportion  of his
cohort and close friend, Edward G. Fallston, he
actually began to address some of logistics that would
- out of necessity - have to ironed out up front.

	For instances, to avoid any emotional
entanglements, way before they ever got close to hoping
in the sack with one another, the two of them would
have to establish some basic grounds rules.  It would
have to be clearly understood - right from the get-go -
that they were doing nothing more servicing one
another's carnal needs and that if one or the other
began to feel anything other than the normal emotions
involved in sustaining a mutually satisfying
friendship, they were to immediately communicate that
change in status to the other so that they could
reevaluate their situation and so decide whether or not
to conclude, continue or expand their strangely
concocted, high heel assisted relationship.

	All of a sudden, catching Paul(a) completely off
guard, with a reminder to the crowd that they'd be
selling their CD's during the break, the duo's first
set of the evening was concluded and Ed was leaning
inward, over the table, kindly inquiring if he could
order the lovely young, twenty-something woman that
Paul Meadows had so magnificently and magically become,
another drink.  Though Paul(a) would have liked to have
remained to hear a good bit more of the live rendition
of the acoustic duo's current repertoire, Paul(a),
desiring to extricate his herified self form the sticky
wicket he had so innocently and inadvertently landed
himself in on one hand, and knowing he - as the she
that he had become - had a few more things that he
wanted to attend to before he called it a night,
crawled into bed and got down to the nitty-gritty of
getting it on with his herified self on the other;
prudently thanked Ed for the company, not to mention,
the use of the table; saying, in so many words that,
after he purchased a CD or two, he would make a quick
check to see if his uncle had arrived back in his room,
and then, given that it was getting neigh on to ten
o'clock, he - as the blonde bombshell that the heels
had turned him into - had to hit the road.

	'Damn!', Paul(a) chided his herified self after
purchasing not one, but two of the duo's CD's.  You
really shot your budget to hell and back this time out!
Old buddy!  Old pal!

	'Be aware that from here on out... like it or
not... you've got to really economize.  So, until we
get back to Janice's home cooking, you might as well
console yourself to the fact that you've been regulated
to the necessity of scarfing down that tasty, fast food
cuisine that...', he mentally cringed, '...you enjoy so
very, very much...'.

	Passing through the lobby and entering the hallway
that would see him to the sanctuary of his room,
Paul(a) became aware of the fact that he had been
lucky.  Ed could have offered to escort Paul(a) over to
his uncle's room.  Which, had his partner insisted on
doing so, Paul(a) would have been presented with yet
another little quagmire of a dilemma to have to contend
with.

	Back in his room, Paul(a) wasted no time at all
assembling the items he planned on using during his
feminine apparel experiment.  With the plastic bag
containing the magazines he had purchased over at the
mall in one hand and his digital, computer-downloadable
camera in the other, Paul(a), desiring to once again
take full advantage of the door mounted, full length,
dressing mirror which was located on the sink and
closet alcove facing side of the bathroom's door,
positioned his herified self so as to provide an
optimum view of the changes - if any - he, with the aid
of the heel's inherent magical where-with-all, might
well bring about.

	Right off, Paul(a) knew that he goofed.  Big F'in
time.  Chastising his herified self severely for having
acted in such a hasty manner, he - as the she that he
had become - came to the sad and awful conclusion that
his selection process had been the pits.  He should
have taken the time to casually flip through the
magazines in order to check out their contents prior to
purchasing them.  Regretfully, he had allowed the
provocative cover  of the smaller of the two women's
periodicals he had picked up to overtly influence his
decision.

	Truth be told, the picture on the front cover of
the thinner and, as incongruous as it might sound, more
expensive of the two women's periodicals could, to
Paul(a)'s very manly way of thinking, have served as
the cover for any number of men's girlie publications;
given how erotically and how provocatively posed the
extremely sultry, auburn haired model was portrayed.

	'Hell!', Paul(a), having completed a stare and
compare of all four covers, internally speculated.
'For my money, the girl who adorns the cover of this
particular women's journal appears a whole hell of a
lot more alluring than either the girl on this month's
Playboy or, for that matter, Penthouse's Pet of the
Month...'

	Trouble was, as Paul(a) quickly found out, he had
been sadly mislead, if not out right snookered into
purchasing your proverbial pig in a poke.  Though some
of the advertising he found contained inside the
thinner of the two women's monthly publications might,
were push to come to shove, provide him with some
inspiration, in so far as female attire was concerned,
the few sparse articles that actually dealt with what
was reported to be the current vogue in women's
apparel, didn't appeal to Paul(a), not in the least
little bit.

	The garments that the current issue was
highlighting were, to Paul(a)'s way of thinking, baggy,
ill fitting and therefore as frumpy, unfeminine and
unflattering as all get-out.  With a certainty, Paul(a)
knew that his wife wouldn't be caught dead wearing
anything as outlandish and as unbecoming as what the
magazine was featuring.

	 Moving to the bulkier women's periodical, Paul(a)
flipped through its' wealth of pages only to find that
while it had a small section near the back devoted
exclusively to cocktail dresses and evening wear such
as prom gowns and the like, it basically served as a
great big advertisement for bridal and bridesmaid's
gowns and the various accessories that went hand and
hand with that sort of thing.

	Now, while Paul(a) tended to get a real kick out
of seeing women decked out in elegant evening gowns and
wouldn't mind finding out how attractive he - as a she
- might look trussed up in one before he retired for
the night, he really wanted his first experiment or two
to revolve around something a little less intimidating,
in so far as that frazzled, sorely abused and
femininely assaulted male ego of his was concerned.

	The Penthouse, save again for some of the
advertising layouts that portrayed a whole bevy of
alluring, long and lovely legged, amply endowed, young,
vivacious women, wearing all sorts and styles of
sensually attuned, eye-catching, male libido torquing
apparel in the calculated hope that such seductively
couched falderal would, in a subliminal sort of
compelling way, help hawk their particular product, was
about as useless to Paul(a)'s current needs as was the
first women's periodical that he had perused.

	Granted, the Penthouse, as it always does,
featured a whole host of beguiling nude and semi-nude
beauties, that could and did tickle Paul(a)'s manly
entrenched libido.   But, though it did, when it came
to the issue of providing him with some form of
inspiration for the clothing experiment he eagerly
wished to get on with, Paul(a) found his herified self
severely disappointed.  Had he wanted to go with the
shinny hooded, whip wielding, rubber-latex fetish look;
or the nipple sucking, diapered-baby, lesbian-lover
route; or portray a demoness, by being decked out in a
forked-tailed body-suit of scintillatingly sinful
scarlet spandex, the Penthouse would have sufficed.

	Trouble was, while Paul(a) wanted to try something
that was both sexy and feminine, he wasn't ready to go
whole hog and deck his ultra feminized self out in
something as outlandish as the outfits that the girls
in Penthouse were both wearing and, it should be noted,
not wearing.  Neither, it should be pointed out, did he
want to end up in something frilly.

	Paul(a) had an aversion to frilly.

	Fact is: Paul(a) hated frilly.

	Basically, when it came to women's clothing,
Paul(a) thought that the K.I.S.S. (Keep It Simple
Stupid) Method was the way to go.  Simple and elegant.

	"Shit!", he exclaimed to his herified self.  "What
I could really use right now is a Fredrick's of
Hollywood Catalog!

	"I'd be willing to bet that they'd have something
that would suit my purposes to a tee!  Y'know, if I
could... for a lack of a better way to put this...
screen out those damnable detracting doodads that they
have a persnickety tendency to tack on to their
garments... y'know, that... as far as I'm concerned...
really screws up the over all effect of the whole
friggin' outfit!

	"I mean... they'll take this really snazzy, body
hugging, body enhancing dress!  Y'know, that's as sexy
as sexy can be!  And screw it up royally!  Y'know, by
adding a bow... or some lace or fringe... or some sort
of grossly flamboyant rhinestone flourish that makes
what otherwise would be a really fantastic looking
dress and turns it into something a low class, truck
stop hooker might wear!

	"Hell!  If they'd just leave the dress alone...
and not dicker around with it... y'know... like they
have a marked tendency of doing... their sales volume
would increase by leaps and bounds..."

 	Though he had pretty much given up hope of finding
a picture of a woman wearing something that he would
not be averse to being decked out in his herified self,
Paul(a), picked up the Playboy he had purchased and
began flipping through its' pages.

	Luck was  with him.  Paul(a) found just what he
was looking for in their seasonally run men's fashion
forecast spread.

	Now, while the section featured several male
models wearing outfits that were being artfully promote
to be the latest and greatest in fall fashions for the
up and coming alpha male, each male model was
accompanied by a very attractive female model, who, it
should be noted, was attired in clothing chosen to
compliment that of their male counterpart's.  And,
surprising the shit out of Paul(a), one of these female
models was wearing a saucy little blouse and mini-
skirted number that fitted Paul(a) purposes to a tee.

	After a long staring gaze, Paul(a), believing he
had the image of the sexy little outfit firmly fix in
his mind's eye, placed the Playboy on the counter,
making sure that it remained opened to the appropriate
page and, having done so, he turned to face the mirror,
as he tried his best to remember the convoluted thought
processes that had precipitated his becoming a natural
blonde.  Believing that the heels had responded to
nothing more than a simple, mentally concocted
conscious wish of his, Paul(a), hoping that it would
net him the results he - as a she - desired, gave it
the old college try.

	In other words, he mentally stated the simple wish
that would see him attired in an exact duplicate of the
clothing he held in the crucible of his mind's eye.

	Nothing -  Not a damn thing! - happened.  Paul(a),
who had been ardently watching for the change to
transpire, was still dressed in the very same feminized
jeans and sweeter outfit he had been wearing before.

	Thinking that he might have in some way goofed
during his endeavors to construct an accurate mental
image of his herified self decked out in the shirt-
styled blouse and wide-belted mini-skirt ensemble,
Paul(a), in an effort to reassure his magically
feminized self, turned that angelic re-sculpture head
of his to the left and directed his gaze downward, to
the propped open pages of the Playboy.

	Realizing that he had gotten it right, Paul(a)
returned that pretty little head of his to the up-
right, face forward position only to be appraised, by
the mirror's reflective surface, that he - as the she
that the heels had turned him into - was garbed in the
very same burgundy, shimmering silk blouse and wide-
belted, slate grey mini-skirt that was so attractively
depicted in Playboy fall fashion layout.

	Though tickled pink with the knowledge that he,
via a conscious, though non-verbalized wish, could
indeed influence how he would be attired during his
heel induced stints as a fully functional femme fatale,
Paul(a) was still more than a little perplexed.
"Why,", he questioned his herified self, "didn't the
change occur right away?

	"Maybe...  Just maybe... There's a... for a lack
of a better way to put this... sort of safety clause
built into this apparel changing business that
restricts these nifty spiked heels of mine from
bringing about the desired change when I... and quite
possible... someone else is watching as well.  Y'know,
so that I don't get... shall we say... caught in the
act.

	"Tell you what!  Old buddy!  Old pal!  Let's test
this new theory of your's out!"

	And that's what Paul(a) did.

	Using the manly emulating, shirt collared and
three buttoned cuffed silk blouse he - as a she - was
so attractively ensconced within as a test base for his
further experimentation, Paul(a), keeping those
adorable, unblinking baby blue orbs of his firmly
affixed on the mirror's surface, mentally concocted a
wish to have the blouse change from its' rich burgundy
hue to a bright, brilliant yellow.  Then, after a slow
and steady ten count, with no change in coloration
transpiring, Paul shut his eyes for an additional three
count.  Opening them, Paul(a), as he - as a stiletto
heeled transmogrified she - knew he would, found his
herified self decked out in a eye-riveting yellow silk
blouse.  Navy blue, and a two count was his next
choice.  White, and a one count his third.  Orange, and
a quick blink his fourth.  Red, and a fast, to and fro
turn of his herified head the fifth.  A no blink - no
change, more or less confirmed his supposition that a
clothing change would only occur in the interim, be
that interim only measured in milliseconds, when
Paul(a)'s visual acuity was directed else where.

	Pivoting, first to the right and then to the left,
Paul(a), delighted to no end with the knowledge that he
could actually do what he had just gone and done,
proceeded on to model the red blouse/grey mini-skirted
outfit for his herified self.  Then, once he was done
doing that, he picked up his digital camera and took
several pictures of his himself.

	Like a kid with a new toy, Paul(a), relishing what
he saw in the mirror and anxious to see how he might
look decked out in other styles of distinctly female
apparel, returned his camera to the counter and,
picking up the Playboy, began to excitedly flip threw
its' pages in an all out effort to find other sources
of inspiration.

	As strange as it may seem, the centerfold spread
provided the very inspiration Paul(a) sought.  In the
much smaller, non-nude or semi-nude pictures that are
used to help portray the current centerfold's vocation
or avocational pursuits, Paul(a) came across a skirted
blazer and blouse business ensemble that he - as a she
- thought might look good adorning his own herified
physique.

	It did.  And Paul(a) snapped about a half a dozen
or so pictures to prove it did.

	Next, Paul(a), exchanging the Playboy for the
rather hefty and copious bridal magazine, fitted his
herified self out with a very charming, dick-teaser
special of what he thought to be a very flirtatious
cocktail dress; before going whole hog and whipping up
a sexy, though never the less, extremely elegant,
strapless, bust hugging, bust enhancing, gleaming,
metallic silver, satinized gown that had the most
daring and decidedly delectable plunging back that ever
- He truly believed in that herified heart of his! -
troubled a swinging dick's dirty old man aspiring mind.

	"Damn!", Paul(a), that new vagina of his leaking
love juices like a sieve, breathlessly exclaimed, as he
picked up his camera and began to once again capture
another whole shitload of pictures of his herified
self.  "With this body!  In this dress!  Am I one fine
piece a work or what?"

	Then, even as he was in the process of returning
his digital camera to the alcove's adjacent counter
top, the kernel of an impishly narcissistic idea popped
into Paul(a)'s brain.  Though he really dug the shit
out of the way he - as a she - looked in that
bodacious, body flattering, metallic silver gown, when
he was flipping through the pages of the Playboy he had
purchased earlier that evening over at the mall,
searching for feminine apparel that he - as a she -
might feel comfortable strutting around in, Paul(a)
recalled seeing the page topping banner - PLAYMATE NEWS
- and under it, a picture of several charming young
ladies, resplendent in the trademark ears, collar, cuff
and tail-fluff of satin clad, gone by not forgotten,
Playboy Bunnies.

	Ever since that day long past when he, with the
grudging and coerced aid of his younger brother, who,
under Paul's explicit instructions, had remained out in
the hallway, playing with a couple of his Hot Wheels,
so as to function as his older brother's trusted and
ever faithful lookout, had snuck into his parent's
bedroom and there, with trepidation mounting with the
passage of each palpation of his wildly beating heart,
taken his first, pre-adolescent peek at one of his
father's Playboy Magazines, Paul had formed this
inexplicable thing, that was damn near, but not quite,
a true, dyed in the wool, first class, no holds bar
fetish, for beautiful, long and lovely legged women,
costumed as ear-crowned, cotton-tail tushed, bow tie
collared Playboy Bunnies.

	And that was odd in and of itself, due to the fact
that Paul had a long held and deeply rooted aversion to
bow ties; believing that it made the guys who wore them
look like a bunch of first rate, pocket-protected
nerds.

	But regardless of all of that, the essential point
of all this hoopla is: Paul - even as the glamorpuss
Paula - was well aware of the fact that he still dug
the livin' shit out of gals resplendent in Playboy
Bunny regalia.

	So, given that he did, and given the fact that he
- as the she that he had so magically been changed into
as a direct result of donning those high heels of his -
had the bod of a body that would look absolutely, no
holds bar, fan-friggin'-tastic trussed in one of those
scintillating, satin, torso hugging, torso enhancing,
Playboy Bunny costumes, Paul(a), beguiled and persuaded
by the persistent urgings of his rampant narcissistic
tendencies, figured that since he, via a simple, non-
verbalized wish, had the necessary where-with-all to
accomplished the deed, he might as well go ahead and
indulge his herified self.

	Though it probably wasn't the least bit necessary,
Paul(a), in an effort to cover all the bases, glanced
over at the picture of the group of Bunnies which
graced the pages of his Playboy Magazine, so as to make
double sure he had all the elements of the sexy outfit
firmly affixed his mind's eye and then, opting for the
electric blue coloration that he felt was the most
becoming, Paul(a) closed those seductively dazzling
baby blues orbs of his and made the appropriate wish.

	The heels obliged  and - Shazam! - Paul(a), upon
opening those alluring and distinctly feminine eyes of
his a second or so later, found his herified self - no
holds bar - bodaciously Bunnified!

	Concurrently, that narcissistically couched male
libido of his went in to estrogen influenced over-
drive, soaking, or more correctly, re-soaking the
livin' shit out of that vagina of his in the process.	

	Why, he didn't know, but for some unexplainable
reason or another, as Paul(a) took a second or so out
to meticulously examine his Bunnified self - up close
and personal like - he gazed down and, though it took
another moment or so to fully register in that manly
attuned mind of his, he realized that the stiletto
heeled pumps adorning those demurely re-sized feetzie-
wheatzies of his had adopted the very same shimmering,
electric blue hue of the sheared, corset-like,
showcasing garment ensconcing his remarkable re-
sculptured, mammary enhanced, feminized torso and that
realization, inexplicable warmed the cockles of that
narcissistically feminized heart of his.

	While he couldn't be absolutely sure, due to the
fact that he hadn't consciously taken note of the fact,
Paul(a), assuming that new, well rounded derriere of
his off to beat the band, made the presumption that it
was entirely possible and highly probably that earlier,
during the brief span of time when those heels of his
had dutifully fitted his herified physique out in that
glistening, flirtatious, hot pink cocktail dress and
then proceeded on to transmogrify that saucy little
micro-mini-skirted number into that spectacular,
strapless, gleaming, metallic silver evening gown, the
pumps had, on their own volition, dovetailed their
coloration to match that of the apparel they had decked
him - as a her - out in.

	Putting that presumption of his to the test,
Paul(a), remembering the sexual charge that was
precipitated upon gazing upon his herified self
resplendent in that fabulous, flowing metallic silver
satinized gown, opted to formulate a wish that would
alter the coloration of the Playboy Bunny Costume he
was presently wearing, turning it from the stunning
electric blue into the eye-riveting metallic silver of
the former, full-length evening attire that had so
fetching adorned that curvaceously and currently
feminized body of his but a few short moments before.

	"Holy shit!", Paul(a), taking note of the fact
that his high heels had silverized along with the
Playboy Bunny costume he - as a she - was so
scandalously ensconced within, reactively exclaimed
upon viewing the results; as his narcissism, acting on
its' own volition, spastically and spasmodically
ricocheted in upon itself, doubling and re-double as it
did so.

	Then, remembering how the glistening liquid silver
evening gown had flowed so sublimely downward from that
enhanced bustline of his marvelous feminized physique
with nary a ripple or crease to mare its' liquid-silver
metallic-like texture, Paul(a), via a little non-
verbalized augmentation wish, had those magically
invested and newly silverized heels of his remove the
shearing effect from the Hutch denizen's body hugging,
tease-to-please garment that was so provocatively
encasing his small waisted, tummy flattened, hip
splayed torso.

	Keenly aware of the irrefutable fact that had he
still possessed a manly, sperm spewing wand and its'
accompanying testicle sacks, he would have - without a
late afternoon's long shadow of a doubt - creamed his
jeans the very instant he beheld the image of his
herified self, so brazenly and provocatively displayed
upon the mirror's reflective surface.

	Knowing that he could only postpone the
inevitable, with the inevitable being: the day long
anticipated, self-induced, self-targeted, teasingly
concocted, finger-ministrations to those all new and
intensely sensitized erogenous zones of his
dramatically feminized anatomy, Paul(a) quickly grabbed
the camera and proceeded to take at least dozen or more
pictures of his Playboy Bunny costumed self.  Then, as
his horniness crested to a level that was damn near
debilitating, Paul(a), aware that he - as she - needed
to address that horniness of his A.S.A.P., or else,
suffer the unimaginable consequences, placed his
digital camera on the sink's counter top and scurried
in a very adorable, lady-like manner, over to the bed,
where upon reaching it, he frustratingly realized he
had a problem on his well manicured and long and lovely
nailed herified hands.

	'How,', he frantically and bemusedly wondered, 'Am
I ever going to extricate myself from this second-skin
like, gleaming silver Bunny outfit that this brand
spanking new and horny-tushed bod of a body of mine is
so provocatively trussed up in?'

	Contorting his right arm around behind the
glamorously sublime run of that lusciously re-sculpture
back of his in such a way that the incurred discomfort
he experienced throughout his herified efforts bordered
on the lower thresholds of out right pain, Paul(a)
endeavored to locate the unsheared satin garment's
spherically holed and nifty hinged zipper's pull-tab.
On two rather short-lived occasions, his dantified
fingers, specifically, his long nailed thumb and index
finger, managed to not only locate it but, to actually
grasp it.  However, on both of those occasions, when he
endeavored to draw it downward, that persnickety pull-
tab slipped out of his rather tenuous grasp.  Then,
aware that any additional efforts on his herified part
might well result in some horniness eradicating back
spasms, Paul(a), in the frenzy of a frustration induced
panic, reached up and, inserting the long and lovely
nailed fingers of both of those well manicured hands of
his in between those ample endowments he - as a she -
sported and down inside the inner run of unsheared
satinized bra-cups of the Bunny Costume that ensconced
his fetchingly feminified torso, and was on the verge
of endeavoring to rip the outfit downward, in an all
out, Herculean effort to extricate his herified self
from it.

	However, just as he was about to give the
confounded costume he - as a she - was trussed up in a
good, hard downward yank, it dawn on Paul(a) that he -
as the she that he was operating as - was been foolish
and that he - here again as the feminine piece of
topography that he had become - was going about this
disrobing business all wrong.  If the heels he was
wearing could, through a succession of wish influenced
changes, turn a sweater and jeans ensemble into a
bodacious Playboy Bunny outfit, it stood to reason that
another simply concocted wish of his could turn that
Playboy Bunny costume back into the very same outfit he
had started the evening decked out in, there by,
facilitating its' easy and quick removal.

	Feeling as foolish as all get-out, that's exactly
what Paul(a) did.  Via a another non-verbalize wish, he
decked himself out in the very same feminized version
of the faded blue jeans and silver thread highlighted
navy blue sweater outfit that he - in his Paula motif -
had started out with.  Shortly thereafter, with
elements of that aforementioned apparel strewn
haphazardly about the room, Paul(a), wearing nothing
but a fully feminized rendition of his birthday suit,
was snugly nestled beneath the covers of his room's
queen sized bed.

	Now, while he had painstakingly planned on
employing the slow-hand, titty-swirl and clitty-tweak
masturbation technique in order to induce the gut-
wrenching nirvana of multi-orgasmic bliss, Paul(a), to
his utter chagrin and abject consternation, found that
his narcissistically couched sense of unbridled
horniness was so compelling and intensely pervasive,
that he - as a she - couldn't.  In a fast, fleeting,
frenzied, Chinese fire drill, fingers don't fail me
now, sort of knock down, dragged out, pillow-eating,
expletive deleted accompanied, self-induced clitty-
tweak, Paul(a) got those feminine rocks of his off and
subsequently entered into the contemplative warm-
fuzzies of a most delightful, multi-faceted, post-
orgasmic wonderment.

	Then, once he had - by in large - physically and
mentally recuperated from what he had just gone and
done to that distinctly feminine physique of his, and
before he once again took the matter of his sexual
gratification into his own herified hands - so to speak
- Paul(a), aware that his horniness was just starting
to re-kindle itself, got up and fumblingly around,
located both of his hastily and haphazardly discarded
high heeled pumps.   Taking note of the fact that his
heels had returned to their former black, kid leather
coloration, Paul(a) reverentially placed them on the
table and, without another thought for the remainder of
the femininely attuned apparel that lay, like so much
flotsam and jetsam, strewn helter-skelter, all about
the room, dragged that tush of his back to the bed and
slipped, ever so seductively, in between it's sheets.

	Recalling how much he had liked the way he - as a
female - felt enveloped in the scintillating luxury of
luxurious satin garments, Paul(a), as he began to
teasing swirl the finger of his left hand around the
femininely enlarged areola of his right breast, found
his herified self wishing that instead of being made of
a low grade of generic cotton twill, the sheets
adorning his bed were fabricated from bolts of richly
luxurious and body pampering satin.

	Once again, shocking the livin' shit out of
Paul(a) in the process, the stiletto heels, though they
no longer resided of those demurely daintified feetzie-
wheatzies of his, dutifully obliged.  One moment the
sheet were cotton.  The next, satin.

	Pleased, Paul(a), who wasn't about to question his
good fortune, opened a second front to his auto-erotic
endeavors, as he slid his right hand out from under the
magically transmogrified sheet covering that amply
endowed, built like a brick shithouse of a body of his
and, placing it on the outside run of the very same
sheet, began to slowly and tentatively draw the luxury
of intervening portion of the satin sheet across the
erogenous zone of his inner, feminized thigh.

	Then, as the first sexually induced moans and
whims began to escaped those lusciously re-constructed
and narcissistically kissable lips of his, Paul(a)
upped the ante considerably, as he took a satin
enshrouded finger and slowly - teasingly - drew it
through the love-juice slickened valley of his heel
imposed femininity.

	Using the images of his herified self decked out
in that dick teaser special of a mirco-mini-skirted
metallic pink cocktail dress, the liquid silver gown
and both colorations and sheared and non-sheared
renditions of Playboy Bunny regalia, Paul(a), fanning
the flames of his recently acquired narcissism, began
to fantasize; incredulous picturing his male self
getting it on with his female self.  Sometime later,
round about the time that his autoeroticism had crested
and was heading full tilt towards multi-orgasmic
crescendo, Paul(a) realized that somewhere along the
line, he had unconsciously taken that ego-sanitized
male image of himself and substituted a second,
scandalously feminized version of his herified self - a
twin if you will - into those fantasizes he was
gleefully and narcissistically staging for the
enjoyment and mental simulation his herified self.

	Afterward, having once again experienced the
sheer, excruciating, damn near debilitating pleasure of
the domino-effect of yet another round of a wildly
ricocheting, maniacally reverberating and capriciously
cascading orgasms as a fully functioning member of the
Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice Club, as he - as a
she - lay there, reveling in the introspective radiance
of the warm-fuzzies of post-orgasmic contemplation,
Paul(a) realized that he deeply regretted the fact that
he - when operating under the influence of those
magically infused heels of his - would probably never -
Ever! - service as the honored and extremely grateful
recipient of the altruistic act of cunnilingus.  His
wife, given her aversion to anything that even remotely
hinted at lesbianism, would never  - Ever! - go down on
him - when he was decked out as a most bodacious her.
Though Janice absolutely - no holds bar - adored it
each and every time he gave that little vaginal swath
of her's a thorough, clit-targeted tongue-lashing,
Paul(a) knew, in that herified heart of his, that he
couldn't expect Janice to return the favor by
preforming some tongue-in-grove work on him - as a
young, vivacious glamorpuss of heel madeover her.

	He also knew that while he might fantasize about
getting it on with another woman or, for that matter
another high heel femmified man, from time to time,
there was no way in hell he would ever jeopardize the
precious relationship he had with his wife by engaging
in such a heinous and flagrant violation of his
marriage vows.  Integrity, Paul(a) truly believe, was a
gift a person bestowed upon themselves at the closing
moments of each any every day by holding to the
straight and narrow path.  Eating, irregardless of what
some people might boisterously and egotistically claim,
was cheating.  And in Paul(a)'s book, so too was being
eaten.

	'Alright!', he thought to his herified self.
'Cunnilingus is out!  So I guess I'll just have to lump
it!'

	'However...', the thought stuck him, '...just
because cunnilingus is not a viable option for me to
pursue... that doesn't rule out the possibility of my
employing one of those battery powered vibrator thing-
a-ma-jigs now does it?

	'I mean... according to everything I've ever heard
or read about 'em, their supposed to heighten the
experience considerably...

	Then, as he - as s she - lay their, contemplating
how he might go about obtaining such a widely lauded,
modern day phallic device, Paul(a), though he wasn't
consciously aware that he was more or less aimlessly
doing so, started in playing yet another self-
stimulating game of touchy-feelly with those newly
activated erogenous zones of his herified physique.  A
few minutes there after, once his arousal quotient had
peeked and in doing so, alerted him to the fact that it
was time to get that femmified shit of his in gear and
get down to the business at hand, with that business at
hand being: some hip swishing, fanny clenching, vagina
lubricating, clitty and titty tweaking, pillow-eating
engendering, orgasmic inducing, carnally targeted,
self-gratification.

	Though it took some time for Paul(a) to recuperate
from his third multi-orgasmic go-around of the night,
he did so - eventually.  Trouble was, even though those
self-directed, auto-erotic endeavors of his had pretty
well tuckered him - as a her - out, Paul(a) was - as he
termed it - still sexually keyed-up and because he was,
he propped up his pillows; reached over; located the
remote; flipped on the TV and began channel surfing.
At first, nothing - not a damn thing - appealed to him
and so, since he wasn't ready to pack it in for the
night, he alternated between continuing to surf through
the rather generous amount of available channels and
checking out the handy, dandy, scrolling cable listings
channel; waiting, what seemed to him to be, the
infuriating, interminable moment or so that would take
it to the top of the next hour of programing.

	'Damn!', he fumed, as he once again began to
frustratingly surf through the channels, hoping that
something - Anything! - might grab his interest.  'So
many channels!  So little choice!  You'd think that
there'd be something worth watching!'

	One of the classic movie channels was featuring a
Tony Curtis Movie Marathon and to Paul(a) surprise, the
next movie on tap  - GOODBYE CHARLIE - featured a
rather far fetched and convoluted plot that, as absurd
as it sounds, was more or less reminiscent of the
situation in which he, as a direct result of donning
those magically infused spiked heels, had so
inadvertently, though never the less, so bodaciously,
landed himself right smack dab in ultra feminized
middle of.  In the movie, Debbie Renyolds played
Charlie Sorel.  Or, more correctly, Debbie Renyolds
portrayed the feminine reincarnation of Charlie, who,
we quickly learn, carnally serviced, on what we are
left free to assume, a fairly regular bases, a whole
shit load of his friends and associates' wives.

	Having seen and, in one fashion or another,
enjoyed the sexual identity farce on several occasions
previously, with the first being during its' initial
release at the local theaters as a pre-pubescent
youngster, Paul(a)'s first inclination was to find
something else of interest to watch.  However, when he
didn't run across anything that looked the least little
bit interesting, Paul(a), desiring to watch something,
returned to it just about the time when the character
that Pat Boone was passable playing showed up at
Charlie Sorel's palatial beach house with Debbie
Renyolds bundled up snugly in his overcoat; claiming
that she had been aimless wandering about on the road,
without a stitch of clothing on and appeared to be
suffering from the over use Hollywood malady of
temporary amnesia.

	So anyhow, Charlie, who wasn't as yet aware of the
fact that he - as the newly embodied she - was indeed
the former manly Charlie Sorel, was placed, by a
somewhat befuddled Pat Boone, into the begrudging care
of Charlie's bachelor friend and fellow writer, who, be
advised, was adroitly played by none other than Mr.
Tony Curtis himself.   That night, after Charlie and
his best friend had gone to beddy bye, Charlie becomes
hysterically aware of the fact that he isn't a he
anymore and that for some inexplicable reason, save for
the one proposed by Tony Curtis' character that eludes
to the fact that maybe God, in that infinite wisdom of
His, has seen fit to teach Charlie a lesson by bring
him back to life as a beautiful girl.

	So, be that as it may be, one thing sort of leads
to another and the next morning, after Tony Curtis'
character has dutifully provided his femininely
reincarnated buddy with a starter set of female
apparel, Charlie, newly attired in a pair of carpi
pants and a sweater, waltzes out of the bedroom he as a
she has been occupying and, scooping his herified self
out in a wall mirror, proceeds on to makes some sort of
wise-assed crack about how those spanking, brand new
breast of his were really something spectacular; which
in turned caused a very sympathetic Paul(a) Meadows to
unconscious reach up and begin to once again fondle the
dandy pair he - as a she - then sported.

	A few minutes later, a mildly aroused Paul(a) gave
into the inevitable and so, began to seriously return
to the pleasurable task of groping the livin' shit out
of those super sensitive erogenous zones of his
magnificent, herified physique.  A minute or so after
that, he was  so caught up in his auto-erotic
ministrations that he became oblivious to the
filmamatic plight of Ms. Charlie Sorel.

	For the fourth time that evening, Paul(a) tickled
the ultra sensitized nub of that new little clit of his
until he climaxed; triggering, if you will, the gut-
wrench, body racking release of a logarithmically
diminishing daisy chain of electrifying, orgasmic
spasms that carried him into the sublime contemplation
of the warm-fuzzies of post-orgasmic bliss.

	To pooped to proverbial pop that nifty little twat
his off for a fifth time that evening, Paul(a), unaware
of the fact that the television was still on, allow his
herified self to drift out of the warm-fuzzies of post-
orgasmic introspection and into the cozy and comforting
satin arms of a most welcome and rejuvenating sleep.

	Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning,
stimulated by an insistent urge to get up and empty
that topped-off bladder of his, Paul(a), still sporting
those dandy feminine attributes that the residual
effect of the heels still imposed on him, provocatively
shook his herified self awake and quick, like a Playboy
Bunny with a bad case of the looseie-juices, attended
to what he - as a she - had to attend to.  Then, as he
was in the process of returning to his bed, Paul(a)
casually took note of the fact his room's TV was in the
process of showing a scene in which Tony Curtis and
Jack Lemon, both dress as women, were getting on a
train, signifying the fact that the movie SOME LIKE IT
HOT was the current offering in the movie channel's
presently running Tony Curtis Movie Marathon.


* * *


	About two hours before the sun crested the eastern
horizon, heralding the start of yet another day and
about a hour before Paul was to receive his scheduled
wake up call, that ultra femmified body of his, having
used up its' residual Sugar and Spice and Everything
Nice Time, began to automatically revert to its' former
maleness.  However, as it did so, due to the fact that
his subconscious was busily entertaining various erotic
permutations of the very same fantasies that he had
consciously been dickering around with during those
extremely self-satisfying auto-erotic sessions he was
having with his herified self the night before, his
body -  or more specifically - that newly re-
constituted penis of his, was busily responding.

	Or, to stated that in other, easily understandable
terms, Paul, who was still fast asleep and therefore,
oblivious to what was even then transpiring, was
getting a first class, blood-gut of a vein bulging
hard-on in preparation for the nocturnal emission that
tended to terminate an erotically couched wet dream.

	In fact, it was that very same nocturnal emission
that woke Paul up.

	Feeling as sticky and cruddy as all get-out, due
to the fact that he had inadvertently sprayed cum all
over not only the sheets but his lower abdomen as well
and that that cum of his was even then in the various
phases of congealing, Paul got up and flipping on his
handy dandy laptop computer en route and made straight
way for the bathroom and its' open-ended offer of an
invigorating, body cleansing shower.  Toweling off
afterwards, he returned to table where resided both the
spiked heeled, pointy toed pumps and his computer,
where upon connecting his digital camera to it via the
appropriate cable conveyance and queuing up the proper
program, Paul began the time consuming process that
would download the multitude of photographs he had
taken of his herified self on the previous evening and
place them in the designated file folder on his
laptop's hard drive.  Returning to the sink, Paul
brushed his teeth; shaved, splashed on some after-shave
and applied a generous amount of antiperspirant
deodorant gel to his underarms.  Doubling checking to
make sure the download was progressing properly, Paul,
selecting his grey suit, a fresh white shirt and a red
and blue stripped power tie, he got dressed.  Knowing
that he couldn't do a damn thing about the sheets he
had hosed down with that damnable nocturnal emission of
his, Paul turned to the task of tidying up the room as
much as possible, so as to prevent the motel's house-
service staff from thinking of him as some sort of
disorderly, unkempt, beer guzzling, gas passing lout of
an ignorant so-and-so.

	As he was going about the room, attending to this,
that and the other thing, Paul suddenly remembered:
come that afternoon, he'd be on his own.  His cohort
Ed, due to some sort of legal preceding revolving
around that rather protracted and costly divorce of
his, had to catch a flight back home a day early so
that he could be in attendance.

 	And that gave Paul a rather impishly concocted
idea.  Returning to the bathroom momentarily, he
procured an unsoiled bath towel.  Picking up the heels,
he proceed to wrap them securely within the towel, so
as to prevent scuffing.  Then, emptying out most, if
not damn near all of the sundry paraphernalia that
resided in his briefcase, Paul proceeded to gingerly
place the towel wrapped heels inside of it.  Closing
and locking the case, Paul took the case and set it on
the seat of very same chair were hung his suit coat.

	He then re-checked his laptop and finding that the
picture download was a done deal of a feat accompli, he
sat down and, checking to make sure he had plenty of
time on those once again manly and moderately callused
hands of his, began reviewing the assortment of
pictures that he had taken of herified self.  Finished,
Paul fished out three diskettes and proceeded to
transfer copies of the file folder containing the most
recent set of digital photographs of his femmified self
to them.

	Paul, as he usually did when out on the road,
checked in with Ed, just to make sure that everything
was copacetic and to arrange a time for them to hook
other with one another, so that they could leisurely
grab breakfast on their way over to the convention
center.

	Having done so and aware that he wouldn't be able
to put in a call to his wife that evening, if, that is:
his hastily contrived plan came together and things
feel in to place as he dearly hoped and prayed they
would, he would have already logged a good five to six
hours operating in the guise of the lovely little
sexpot Paula by the time evening rolled around.  So, in
order to circumvent the need to call Janice that
evening and there by clear the proverbial path for what
he was planning, with respect to becoming the high heel
shod femme fatale Paula, Paul, re-checking the time so
as to issue that his wife would indeed be awake, placed
his damn near daily check-in call.


* * *


	All throughout breakfast Ed went on and on and on
- ad nauseam - about how nice and how pretty and how
this and how that Paul's niece had been; adding, in a
thinly veiled chastisement, how he thought that it had
been a real pity that Paul hadn't been on hand when she
had dropped by, with her expressed purpose of her visit
being: to spend a little time with her favorite -
albeit only - uncle.

	Paul, inwardly flattered by his cohort's
sentiments, contritely concurred that Ed was indeed
correct and that it was a shame that he hadn't been
there.
	
	Ed, feeling a little guilty about the fact that he
was bugging out a day and a half early on his team
leader and senior partner in crime, packed up damn near
all of the test gear and the associated pamphlets
containing all the technical data that they had on
display at their company's booth while Paul was off
giving his scheduled ten o'clock presentation,
alleviating Paul from the necessity of having to do so
later that afternoon.  Paul, having taken it upon
himself to cancelled his afternoon's presentation,
given the fact that no one had as yet signed up for it
and the prospects for someone doing so fell neatly into
the category of slim and none, returned to the kiosk
and, finding it, for all practical purposes, all packed
up and ready for shipping on to their next scheduled
stop on the technology show circuit, was profusely
thankful that Ed had taken such initiative and made
double damn sure that his cohort knew just how
appreciative he was.

	Then, somewhere around eleven thirty, Paul, aware
that Ed, who had already gone through  all the
rigmarole involved in checking out of the motel they
were staying at, told his junior associate that maybe
he ought to start thinking about shagging that sorry
ass of his out to the airport.  Ed, realizing that
Paul's was a very prudent suggestion, and with yet
another heart-felt apology for having to do so, did
just that.

	Paul, alone at last, waited another half a hour
just to be on the safe side and then, just a couple of
minutes past noon, he, with his briefcase in hand,
exited the booth and weaved his way across the sparsely
populated exhibition hall.  Selecting one of several
service corridors that he knew, from prior experience,
lead indirectly to a pair of restrooms that were way
off the beaten path and therefore, rarely, if ever
used, Paul made straight off for the men's room.
There, having taken care of what needed to be taken
care of first, Paul, hoping that no one would walk in
while he was doing so, made a quick survey so as to
assure himself that he was the lavatory's only
occupant.  Asking God to forgive him for this minor
indiscretion of his, Paul choose the larger, handicap
stall located at the far end of the line-up, so as to
afford him a little more room for doing what he had
planned on doing, and, upon entering it, turned and
succinctly homed the locking catch.  Though yoke-seat
of the toilet appeared to be both clean and dry, Paul
grabbed a generous wad of toilet paper and, balling it
up, swiped it across the seat's rounded surface; just
to make double damn sure that he wasn't going to
inadvertent get somebody else's piss droplets on the
pants of his recently dry cleaned business suit.

	With his briefcase resting on the above the knee
portion of his legs, he dialed in the correct three
digit combinations; thumbed the latches opened and lift
its' lid.  Removing the heels from towel, Paul placed
one and then the other on the floor right beside the
loafers he had intelligently opted for that morning.
Starting with his right foot and then, moving to his
left, Paul, who's paranoia was having a field day,
slipped his feet out of the loafers and into the heels.
Then, even as the feminization process was flowing
upwards, turning him in due course from the man he was
born to be and into the built like a brick shithouse,
blonde bombshell that the heels had on two previous
occasions, transsexualized him into, Paul was busily
attending to the business at hand, with that business
at hand being: picking up the loafers he had been
wearing; bundling them up in the motel's purloined
towel and stuffing them inside of his briefcase.

	Having accomplished that, Paul, though he hated
like hell having to do so, took his briefcase and
gingerly, so as to make as little noise as possible,
set it on the floor of the stall, positioning it so
that it resided crossways, right inside the door, so as
to hopefully block anyone from taking note of the fact
that the handicap stall's occupant was wearing a pair
of women's, high heeled, dick teaser specials.

	Then, just as he took note of the fact that from
that newly slim and trim, hip-splayed waist of his
floorward, he was all girl, Paul heard the men's room
door open and concurrent sounds of footfalls entering.

	'Shit!', he - in the process of becoming a she -
silently bemoaned the fact that he was no longer the
lavatory's sole occupant.  'I guess - Like it or not! -
I'll just have to wait the bastard out!'

	Lucky for Paul(a), whoever the intruder was, the
guy had done what he had come in to do and left, just
about the time the heel induced metaphysical
feminization process was putting the finishing touches
on Paul's sexual makeover.

	Fearing that some other dude might come waltzing
in before he - as the she that he had just then and
there become - could extricate his herified self from
the potentially embarrassing situation that his being
in the men's room as a fully fledged piece of feminine
topography might well precipitate, Paul(a), picking up
his briefcase and the accompanying high heel provided
purse, exited the stall and judicially moved to the
handicap sink and the larger, downwardly angling mirror
that was mounted above it.  Taking a quick, truncated
moment or so to scope out how he - as she - had been
re-attired as a member in good standing of the fairer
sex, Paul(a), not sure if he was at all happy over the
prospect of being decked out in a leg-revealing, man-
ogling mini-skirt business ensemble for the rest of the
day, decided that a change might be in order, but that
such a change would have to wait for him to re-locate
that fabulously scandalous new tush of his to the
ladies room.

	And that's just what Paul(a) did.  With briefcase
clutched in one of those well manicured, emasculated,
long and lovely nailed hands of his and the heel
provided handbag in the other, Paul(a), with heels a
clicking and a clacking across the lavatory's tiled
floor in his wake, proceeded out of the men's room and
into the adjacent and less frequented lady's room.

	There, in one of the full length wall mounted
mirrors that were thoughtfully provided for just that
purpose, Paul(a) minutely scrutinized the feminine
rendition of the light grey business suit he had
started out that morning wearing.  The pants, as stated
before, had become a non-micro mini-skirt.  His socks -
tan hued pantyhose.   And his jacket - a grey,
femininely tailored blazer.  Likewise, his white shirt
- a softer, pearl-white silk blouse and his red and
blue striped power tie a scarfs and breast pocket
handkerchief enhancement.

	While he had to admit that he looked damn good in
the outfit, Paul(a), recalling the time old adage
about, 'In for a penny, in for a pound...', figured
that since he - as a she - via one of the heels' nifty
little magically sub-routines, had the where-with-all
to directly influence how he was attired as a female,
he might as well deck his herified self out in
something a tab bit more to the liking of that
staunchly entrenched, lecherously aspiring, male libido
of his.

	Closing his eyes, Paul(a) visualized what he had
in mind.  A second or so later, he opened those
damnable compelling baby blue orbs of his to find
himself bodacious resplendent in a smart - albeit
snazzy - black, shimmering, moderately heavy weighted
silk version of the former light grey, feminized
business ensemble in which the skirt was just a smidgen
or two shorted, the pantyhose, a tad bit darker and the
pearl-white hued silk blouse replaced by a dazzling
liquid-silver, lycra-satin turtle neck pullover.  The
scarf was gone and its' companion pocket doodad-
flourish had transmogrified itself into the very same
liquid-silver lycra-satin of the turtle neck pullover
he - in his blonde bombshell motif - was so seductively
decked out in.

	Though he would have dearly liked to have remained
in the lady's room for expressed purpose of lewdly
gazing at his herified self a while longer, Paul(a),
keenly aware that his narcissism had kicked into no
holds bar over-drive and that if he didn't shag tush
P.D.Q., that new vagina of his would be leaking love-
juices like a sieve, reached down and picked up both
his briefcase and the moderately large, black leather,
dual shoulder-strapped, draw-string closure purse that
those heels of his had, on their own volition, provided
him - as a her - with.

	Back in the rarely traversed service corridor,
with the distinctly clicketty-clack of his high heels
reverberating along the well lit passage, Paul(a)'s
stomach informed him in no uncertain terms that he had
a decision to make.  Should he go a block east and grab
some chicken nuggets at the very same Mickey Dee's he
and Ed had breakfasted at, or, should he walk north for
a short block and a half for chicken tenders at
Burgerking?

	The chicken tenders and Burgerking won out.
Returning to main exhibition hall that was hosting the
technical fair, Paul(a), who was attracting admiring
stares the way a junk yard dog attracts fleas, stopped
by his company's kiosk and procured his khaki colored
trench coat, which, once donned and out of sight and
out of mind, as it were, instantaneously underwent its'
own very unique and very stylish brand of feminization.

	Later, after a semi-satisfying lunch, Paul(a), who
had been thoroughly and, in some cases, perversely
ogled up one scintillating side and down the sexy and
beguiling other, the whole, entire time he was on his
lunch break, as he - as a she - realized he would be,
returned to the convention center's lower exhibition
hall and the confines of the presentation booth his
company had contracted for the show.

	It was only then, as he - as a she - looked about
the kiosk and took note of the several rather bulky
test sets and their accompanying brochures that his
cohort had so prudently boxed up for shipping while
Paul was busy with his morning demonstration, that
Paul(a) became keenly aware that he had goofed; that he
had inadvertently overlooked a crucial point when
contemplating an entire afternoon and evening spent
femmed out to the friggin' max.

	Paul(a), who was more than a little miffed with
his herified self for not having thought about this
proverbial fly in the ointment previously, was well
aware of the fact that, even as a man, moving the test
sets, given their inherent bulkiness, more so than
their actual weight, proved a challenge.  As a woman,
with shorter arms, who was decked out in a movement
hindering, hip-hugging mini-skirt, such a task would
prove daunting at best and damn near impossible at
worst.

	So anyhow, Paul(a), knowing that he needed some
sort of wheeled conveyance to transport all that
aforementioned stuff of his down one level to the
convention center's loading dock, though he - as a she
- still had no idea at all as to how he was going to
manhandle the test sets and accompanying boxes onto it,
figured that since he had nothing else to do, he might
as well run down to the shipping and receiving desk and
see if he could persuade them into lending him a
handcart.

	The foul mouthed, order-barking, forearm tattooed,
tyrannical, cigar smoking old coot manning the
convention center's shipping and receiving desk did
more than lend Paul(a) a handcart.  Profusely
apologizing for the anatomically impossible obscenity
that he half suspected Paul(a) of overhearing, Mr.
Officious - as Paul(a) mentally tagged the guy -
gruffly called over to one of his subordinates and told
the young fellow - in no uncertain terms - that he was
to go get one of the large handcarts and accompany the
lovely young, amply endowed charmer that Paul(a) had
become back up to the exhibition hall where upon, the
lad was directed by his boss to load the cart for
Paul(a) and get back down to the dock A.S.A.P..

	Though he felt a little uneasy about being
accorded in such a gentlemanly like fashion, given the
fact that such courteous treatment tended to grate on
that staunchly entrenched male ego of his, Paul(a)
realized that, all things considered, there was indeed
something to be said for this new feminine appeal of
his.  If he could employ it to alleviated him of the
necessity of having to tackle a task that he - as she -
was physical incapable of achieving, so much the
better.  While he might not like to have to employ
those feminine whiles of his to achieve something that
he'd be, were he still in possession of those manly
muscles of his, able to adequately attend to his
unherified self, he would do so and he would do so
gladly.

	So anyhow, be that as it maybe, once Paul(a)
attended to the necessary nuisance of getting all his
company's various presentation paraphernalia down to
the loading dock, along with the proper paperwork that
would - he hoped and prayed - get it shipped out to the
next city on the telecommunications trade show circuit,
so that it would be there - waiting - ready for him and
Ed to unpack and go through the whole rigmarole of
assembling all over again, Paul(a) found that he had
nothing - not a damn thing - to do.

	So, given that he had time on those delicately
herified hands of his, Paul(a) figured that he could
use it to his advantage.  Professionalism had always
inhibited Paul(a) from engaging in a fact-finding,
technical based confabs with representatives of his
company's competitors in the past.  However, in his
current situation, decked out as a fully functioning
piece of feminine physiognomy, he had anonymity.  No
one would know otherwise.  Once he removed his company
logo emblazoned name tag, which clearly identified him
- even as the her that he had become - as a company
rep, Paul(a) was home free.  Though he knew what he -
as  a she - was engaging in was as unethical and
unprofessional as all get out, no one else would.  And
due to that fact, Paul(a) knew that he could use
whatever information he could garnish through such in-
depth, fact-finding conversations to really improve and
enhance his own sale's pitch, having acquainting his
herified self with both the assets and deficits of his
competitors products.

	For the next hour and half, Paul - functioning as
the becoming blonde bombshell Paula - took almost
sardonic pleasure in pulling some of his competitors'
representatives chains.  While all of the guys Paul(a)
talked to could spew technical specifications till the
cows came home, only one guy out of the four reps he
engaged in conversations with had any inkling of their
particular product's application peculiarities.  They
could explain - in great, confusing detail - what
happened when the test set's end user/operator flipped
that switch or turned this dial, but that was pretty
much the extent of their expertise.  Paul(a), having
been a telecommunications technicians for many a year
prior to becoming a sales rep, had first hand knowledge
of how such test gear was used and abused by the
technicians in the field and so was able to trip-up the
generally arrogant, egotistical so-and-sos he was
engaging in conversation with by asking them user
specific questions, which these condescending, so
called sales rep experts had no idea what so ever as to
how to supply an adequate answer to.

	Paul(a), though he freely admitted to his herified
self that more than one of the high speed data test
sets he had been shown had more bells and whistles,
more gadgets and gewgaws and doodads and were
therefore, technically superior to those produced by
the small, high tech, telecommunications manufacturing
outfit he - his unherified self - represented, the guys
hawking them, when it came to their applicational use,
didn't know their ass from first base.

	In other words, Paul(a) knew with a certainty that
were he was granted the opportunity to present an
equivalent test set to a perspective high end
purchaser, he could couch his sale's pitch in such a
way as to take that knew knowledge of his into account
and there by, easily out sell those other guys and
leave them packing sand, as it were.

	As previously stated, such unethical pursuits kept
Paul(a) occupied for an hour and a half.  Meaning: it
was two thirty and Paul(a) had run out of things to do.

	For all practical purposes, though his company
would be more than a little pissed if word ever got
back to them about what he had done,  Paul(a) had
closed their kiosk down.  While it was true that he -
as the high heel transmogrified she - could, and
probably should have, maned - or, employing the present
day doctrines and jargon of situationally applied
Political Correctness - womaned his company's booth
until the telecommunications exposition officially came
to a conclusion at five o'clock that afternoon.
However, since the exhibition hall was, for all
practical purposes, quickly becoming a modern day
equivalent of wild west ghost town, Paul(a) saw no
sense in his staying on until the bitter end.

	That being the case, Paul(a), doubling checking
his company's allocated booth so as to ensure that he
hadn't overlook anything, hit the road.

	Driving back to his motel, the kernel of a quirky
notion began to formulate in that pretty little blonde
haired caressed head of his.  Remembering that he had
to run over to the mall that evening in order to pick
up his professionally processed photo packet and
recalling how attractive he had looked in that
stunningly elegant, liquid-silver satin evening gown,
Paul(a) began to mull over the possibility of his
posing for another shoot, even if he had to pay for it
his own herified self.

	Opting to go for another photo shoot, if such
could be successfully arranged, Paul(a) dashed into his
motel room and, upon locating his garment bag, placed
his other suit jacket and a couple of previous worn
dress shirts inside of it, so as to give the bag its'
proper definition.  Then, with his garment bag in hand
it was out to his rental car and off to the mall.

	Arriving at the mall, Paul(a) made straight off
for the photo studio.

	Luck was with him.  Even before Paul(a) could
explore the possibility of paying for another sessions
with the studio's spunky little flat-chested
receptionist, that would have to - out of necessity -
occur that afternoon or, at the very latest, that
evening, due to the fact that he was booked on a flight
home the following afternoon, the manager, having seen
Paul(a) enter, trumped in on the conversation that
Paul(a) had just then and there initiated with the
studio's receptionist and offered him a deal that
pleased Paul(a) to no end.

	It seems that the franchises' regional route
manger had stopped in that very morning, round about
the time the studio's manger was personally processing
the assortment of pictures he had taken of Paul(a) on
the previous evening's shoot and, upon be appraised of
the deal that his store manger had made with Paul(a),
went on to suggest that, given how balls to the walls
beautiful Paul(a) was, it might be advantageous for
them to make the young, glamorpuss of a lady they took
Paul Meadows to be yet another deal.

	If Paul(a) would sign a non-binding contract
granting the regional franchises the exclusive right to
use the pictures they'd take of him - as a her - in an
advertising blitz they were in the process of putting
together, they would one: provide him with more than a
generous amount of prints of the photos taken, and two:
in recompense for his modeling services, cut him - as
the female Paula Meadows - a check in the amount of
seven hundred and fifty dollars.

	Flabbergasted at the irony of it all, since he
would have paid out of his pocket (or should that
instead be pocketbook) to have another set of pictures
taken, Paul(a), upon the stipulation that they'd have
to take the pictures right then and there, due to the
fact that he was flying home the next afternoon, gladly
accepted the deal he had been offered.  Brandishing the
garment bag, Paul(a), adopting the Clintonian Approach,
prevaricated that nicely rounded, man troubling tush of
his off, as he - as a she - proceeded on to inform the
studio's manger that he believed he had a couple of
outfits that might be exactly what the manger had in
mind.

	Liking how stunningly attractive Paul(a) looked in
the black silk and liquid silver turtleneck enhanced
business ensemble, the shop's no nonsense manger, who
had once again elected to take personal charge of
Paul(a)'s photo session, snapped both close-ups and
full body shots of Paul(a); first wearing the blazer
and then, sans the blazer.  Having done that, the
manager call upon the services of the place's resident,
miracle worker of a first rate beautician, who, after a
sort confab with the manager, in a record breaking
three minutes or there abouts, weaved, pined and
cajoled those rich, golden, lovely locks of Paul(a)'s
up into a very attractive, very elegant, neck-baring
bouffant.  The manger than snapped off another set of
photographs of Paul(a); first in just the liquid silver
turtleneck and then, following them up with yet another
set of pictures with that fetching bod of a body of
Paul(a)'s once again wearing the black, heavy weight
silk blazer.

	With that initial phase of the photo shoot
dispatched with, the studio's manager, who had already
begun, what was for him, the mundane the task of
reloading the several cameras he was using and
dutifully labeling the exposed film cartridges, had his
beautician show Paul(a) to one of their dressing rooms,

	Entering the over-large closet that service as one
of the establishment's two changing-rooms, Paul(a) hung
up his garment bag and then, aware that he had to allow
for an appropriate amount of time to pass before he -
as a she - re-emerged, closed those compelling rich
blue and lovely lashed orbs of his and envisioned his
herified resplendent in that bodaciously bedazzling,
eye-riveting, liquid-silver satin evening gown and -
Wallah! - there he - as a she was - scandalously
ensconced within the elegant embodiment of stylish,
silver-satin simplicity.

	Then, since he had the time, Paul(a), grabbing a
wad of the gown's floor-flowing skirt in each of those
herified hands of his, proceeded on to raise its'
floor-caressing hemline a couple of inches, so as to
afford him a look-see at the stiletto heeled pumps
gracing those daintily feminized feetzie-wheatzies of
his.  As expected, the spiked heels gleamed with the
same brilliant silverized hue of the gown that so
fetchingly adorned his magically feminized physique.

	Once again, a whole raft of pictures were taken of
Paul(a), resplendent in the liquid-silver evening gown
of his; first with his hair trussed up in a flattering,
neck-exposing, bun-like conglomeration and then, after
the beautician came in and undid that rather nifty
handiwork of her's, with those honey golden tresses of
his once again flowing ever so radiantly down along the
run of his herified spinal cord.

	In like fashion, once again alternating between
pictures taken with his hair flowing freely down that
luscious back of his and done up by the studio's
beautician in that high fashion, though none the less,
flattering bouffant, Paul(a) posed for pictures
wearing: a glossy, rich scarlet, long sleeved,
scalloped necked, second-skin emulating, micro mini-
skirted lycra-spandex dick teaser special and after
that, a black, flared collared, billowing sleeved,
gauntlet cuffed, striking satin poet's blouse and
accompanying broadly belted, black kid leather, hip
hugging, leg-revealing micro mini-skirt.

	"Well Paula,", the studio's manager having
polished off yet another two rolls of film, "unless
you've got something else in that garment bag of your's
that you think might prove appealing, I guess that
about wraps it up."

	Thinking fast, Paul(a), who dearly wanted to have
a full set of professionally taken and processed
photographs of his herified self resplendently decked
out in fully Playboy Bunny regalia, replied with a
deceitfully concocted and carefully couched  degree of
hesitancy conveyed clearly in those new, throaty, and
down right penis arousing intonations of his, "Well...
Now that you mention it...  I did bring one other
outfit with me..."

	"You did!", the studio's manger, falling head long
into Paul(a)'s carefully concocted trap, exclaimed.

	"Yes...  Yes, I did!", Paul(a), still playing the
innocent, naive blonde airhead of a bombshell that
people tended - Though he was perplexed as to why a lot
of people made such an asinine assumption about blondes
in the first friggin' place. - to assume him - as a her
- to be, coyly replied.

	"But...", Paul(a), cunningly aware that he was
about to set the hook in this little ploy of his, drew
that hesitantly spoken 'BUT' of his out to a point
where it just hung there.  Provocatively!  Poignantly!
"...as much as I'd really would like to have you take
some pictures of me wearing this other outfit of
mine... now that I've had some time to think about
it... I really don't think you could use the pictures
of me wearing it in this proposed advertising campaign
your company is even now in the process of putting
together."

	Intrigued, the manger felt compelled to ask, "And
why - Pray tell! - is that, Paula?"

	"Well...", Paul(a), using the rather nefarious
tactics of America's most recent impeached Prevaricator
in Chief, having set the hook, began to reel the manger
in as he began to fabricated a real whopper of a
falsehood (Note: Please, feel free to indulge yourself
and read falsehood as an out right damn dirty lie.),
"...to make a rather long and tedious story as short
and succinct as possible.  I have a old college dorm
chum of mine.  Who's a pretty fair seamstress.  And she
lives right here.  Y'know, just beyond and a little to
the northwest of this beltway... or what you all call
it around here...

	"Well... knowing that I was going to be in town
for a couple of days.  Y'know, to attend a
telecommunications trade fair.  I called my friend...
Oh, I guess about a month and a half ago and asked her
if she could see her way clear to making a very
specialized Halloween costume for me..."

	"You see, my husband - He's Air Force pilot. -
has... for a lack of a better way to put it... this...
this... THING about Playboy Bunnies.  Y'know, as in he
really - Really! - likes the way women look when decked
out in the ears, collar, cuffs and torso hugging outfit
of a Playboy Bunny.  So, since he does, I thought that
I'd surprise him come Halloween by decking myself out
as one...  And since I just picked the costume up
earlier this afternoon - y'know, before running all the
way over here... I thought it might be nice were I to
get some professionally done pictures of myself wearing
it.  Y'know, so I could give them to my husband as...
shall we say... a keepsake...

	"But like I was saying before...", Paul(a), who
felt reasonable sure that he had already gained the
manager's compliance, continued, "Were you to take a
set of pictures of me dressed up in a pretty fair hand-
sown facsimile of the infamous Playboy Bunny outfit...
you probably couldn't use than in your advertising
campaign.  Y'know, because of all the legal hassles
involve..."

	Freely admitting that what Paul(a) had said about
all the legal ramifications involved in using a picture
of Paul(a) decked out in a reproduction of a Playboy
Bunny Costume as part of their forth coming advertising
campaign was probably true and something that should be
staunchly avoided, he never the less informed Paul(a)
that, as a way of personally thanking Paul(a) for both
of his consideration and exemplary cooperation as a
model, he be more than happy to provide him - as a her
- with another set of pictures, portraying Paul(a)
resplendently decked out in full Bunny regalia.

	Re-entering the changing room, Paul(a) realized he
had a decision to make.  Though he really liked the way
he looked in the electric blue hued Bunny costume, when
push came to shove, he really - Truly! - dug the livin'
shit out the silverized version even more.

	Wondering if he had perhaps gone a bit overboard
with respect to all the silver-hued clothing that he -
as a high heel transmogrified she - had been decking
his herified self out with, what with the evening gown
and the business ensemble's classy and very unique,
satinized turtleneck pullover, Paul(a), closing those
baby blues of his, visualized his feminized physique
ensconced within the electric blue coloration of the
Bunny Costume's torso molded mainstay.  However, after
what seem to him to be an adequate passage of time so
as to justify the necessity of his climbing out of one
outfit and scrambling into another, Paul(a), second
guessing his herified self thought, "The hell with it!
So what if I like the way I look in silver shit!
Besides... this might be my one and only chance to have
a professional photographer take a picture of me decked
out in a dick-teaser special as fantastic looking as
this!  So... I might as well go whole hog and do it
right!  Y'know, because I might not get another
chance...".

	A wish and a blink did the trick.  In what was no
more than a half of a narcissistically couched
palpation of that herified heart of his, the electric
blue coloration of the dramatically sheared, bustline
enhancing satin garment was replaced by a dazzling  -
Hey!  Everybody!  Dig the shit out of me! - eye-
riveting silver.

	Though Paul(a) knew that none of the staff took
any undo notice of him when he  - as a silver costumed
Bunny clad she - exited the changing room and began to
timidly make his way along the corridor, Paul(a) never
the less felt as conspicuous as all get-out.   The
studio's no nonsense manager, sensing Paul(a)'s
uneasiness, did everything he could to make the session
as unthreatening and enjoyable for the both of them as
humanly possible.  Paul(a), appreciating the manager's
efforts, not to mention, several of the jokes the
manager cracked in a calculated effort to ease the
prevailing tension, did everything he - as a Playboy
Bunny resplendent she - could to shed the goose-pimple
engendering heebie-jeebies, which in turn, were induced
by those heavy  handed, male libido driven inhibitions
of his.

	Somewhere along the line, the studio's manager,
drawing on his wealth of experience as a portrait
photographer, teasingly cajoled Paul(a) into assuming a
more nonchalant and casual attitude, which in turn,
greatly enhanced the over all effect and composition of
the pictures being snapped.  Early on, in an effort to
put Paul(a) in a more relaxed mood, the studio's
manager inquired as to whether or not Paul(a) had seen
the made for TV movie A BUNNY'S TALE staring Kristie
Alley.  Paul(a) said that he thought he had, prompting
the manager to proceed on to his next question.  Had
Paul(a) seen the cover heralded article in Peoples
Magazine that had touted the up coming movie?  Paul(a)
admitted that it was entirely possible and highly
probable that he had.  Next question.  Was Paul(a)
aware of the fact that the movie was based on the real
life experiences of Cosmopolitan's editor in chief,
Gloria Steinem, who, during her early days as an up and
coming journalist, to get a story with some meat in it,
donned the ears, collar, cuffs  and cottontail of a
Playboy Bunny?  Again, Paul(a) acknowledged that - Yes!
- he was aware of the fact.  Did Paul(a) recall a
companion set of pictures which were featured in that
issue of Peoples in which Kristie Alley assumed the
very same quirky, hands and arms splayed outward from
the hips pose that Gloria Steinem had been photographed
using years earlier?  Paul(a) thought he did, prompting
the manger to suggest that it might be a real hoot were
he to capture a couple of pictures of the Bunny clad
Paul(a) assuming that very same quirky stance.

	Paul(a) woodenly obliged.  The manger, adopting
another ploy, quickly cracked a joke about how Paul(a)
- costumed as he was - had to exercise extreme caution
were he - as a she - to let lose with an unchecked,
germ aerated sneeze; suggesting as he did so that were
Paul(a) to sneeze, he - here again as the amply endowed
sheling that he had so exquisitely become - could -
were he not extremely careful - dressed as he was,
expose those conically formed attributes of his for all
the word to see.  Paul(a), recalling a cartoon he had
once seen when perusing an old copy of Playboy which
depicted pretty much what the studio's manager had just
then and there suggested, had to laugh and that, in
turn, released the tensions, which in a domino effect,
expunged him of his former stiltedness.

	After the photo shoot, after Paul(a) was once
again re-attired in that black silk blazer and skirted,
liquid-silver, turtleneck pullover enhanced business
ensemble, the studio's manager, Ian McSomething-or-
other, having re-assured himself that he did indeed
have Paul(a)'s correct home address and, with a promise
that he would UPS the processed photos to Paul(a) the
very next afternoon, or the afternoon after that at the
latest, went on to inquiry if Paul(a) was hungry;
suggesting that if Paul(a) was as famished as he
himself was, given that it was getting onto seven
o'clock, they could both head down to the food court
and grab something to eat and the studio would foot the
bill.

	Paul(a), who was at first somewhat leery of
accepting the studio manager's generous offer, fearing
that Ian McSomething-or-other might well have some
ulterior motives, such as getting into those satin
thong style panties that Paul(a)'s femmified
physiognomy was so scantily and invitingly trussed up
in, realized that he was being down right foolish and
that were he to refuse Ian's offer, he'd be doing
nothing less than giving into that newly fostered
feminine paranoia of his.

	In other words, after a brief and hardly
discernable moment of thoughtful hesitation, Paul(a)
gladly accepted Ian McSomething-or-other's dinner
invitation.

	As anticipated, nothing untoward occurred while
Paul(a) was in the company of the studio's manager.
Ian, though he probably wasn't aware of his doing so,
accorded Paul(a) in a casual, but never the less,
gentlemanly like fashion.  Truth be told, as Paul(a)
was polishing off his last piece of pizza, he realized
that under other circumstances, he probably could have
formed a lasting, male-bonding kind friendship with
Ian, given the fact that they seem to shared the same
core beliefs and, as ironic as it might seem, had a few
of the same interests, such as: they were both Civil
War buffs and ardent campers to boot.

	So anyhow, be that as it may be, once the two of
them had finished with their dinner, Paul(a), escorted
dutifully by Ian, returned to the photo studio; picked
up his garment bag; said his good-byes and was off to
his rental car and the sanctuary of his motel room.


* * *


	Back in his motel room, Paul(a), who was
thoroughly please with how well his day had gone up to
that point in time and keenly aware that this might
well be his last opportunity to explore - through first
hand and groin experience - the ever fascinating,
multi-faceted world of the feminine mystique, figured,
in that narcissistically, male libido torqued mind of
his, that he - as a spike heeled made-over she - might
as well go for the gusto.  So thinking, even as he was
hanging that garment bag of his in the room's alcoved-
off closet area, Paul(a) made the mentally concocted
wish that would turn that black silk and silver satin
highlighted business ensemble of his back into that
saucy, sheared satin, silverized rendition of the
fetching costumes once worn by those succulent,
scantily clad, cotton tailed denizens of Hugh Hefener's
Playboy Hutches.

	Then, dressed once again in the ears, collar,
cuffs and cute little tail fluff of a satin clad
Playboy Bunny, Paul(a), as was his wont on his last
night of an out of town stay, began the dreaded and,
what was for him, the arduous task of packing up all
that he could, making double sure to leave accessible
only those items he deemed both necessary and
essential.  Coming upon his bathing suit while packing
up what he could in the bathroom, Paul(a), feeling like
a late evening's swim in the motel's hearted indoor
pool, accompanied by a couple of soothing sessions in
the associated hot tub might be in order, put his suit
on the side.

	Once done with his packing, Paul(a), still feeling
as horny and as frisky as all get-out, once again
explored the possibility of his going for a refreshing
dip in the motel's pool.  Deciding that it was a most
apropos idea, Paul next considered how he - as a she -
should approach the bathing suit issue.  Should he
merely close his eyes and make another wish that would
turn his Bunny Costume into an appropriate bathing
suit?  Or should he instead, turn the costume into
something that would facilitate easy removal and then,
see what would transpire were he to don those navy
blue, competitor swimmer styled nylon/lycra trunks of
his.

	Curious to see what would happen, Paul(a), via a
mentally formed wish and a quick closing and opening of
those luscious eyes of his, caused those heels he was
wearing to transmogrify the Bunny Costume back into the
skirted blazer business ensemble that he - as a she -
had been wearing all that afternoon and quickly,
without a lot of who-struck-john involved in the
process, clamored out it.  Then, stepping out of the
heels, so as to prevent snagging his Speedos, Paul(a)
stepped into them and began to draw them up his legs.
Oddly, though Paul(a) more or less anticipated such
occurring, as he pulled the trunks into place, he
became delightfully aware of the fact that he still had
a wealth of the suit's nylon/lycra material balled up
in those herified hands of his.  Thinking that it was
kind of nifty the way the heel's magic worked, Paul(a)
continue to draw his bathing suit upwards, where upon
coming to the realization that suit had been somehow
magically equipped with shoulder straps, he stopped;
slipped those emasculated arms his through the
appropriate loops and then, continued the process of
dressing as he reached up and tenderly jostled and
cajoled first one and then, the other of those man-
pleasing ample endowments of his into the appropriate
pockets of the feminized version of his formerly manly
swim suit.

	Stepping back into those stiletto heeled pumps of
his, Paul(a) went to get a glimpse of his femininely
bathing suited attired self in the mirror.

	Even though he freely admitted that he was as bias
as all get-out, Paul(a) new that he looked good.  Damn
good!

	Hell!  He looked as good in the French cut, one
piece, form fitting, titty showcasing tank suit as he
had in the Playboy Bunny Costume.

	Then, though he felt foolish for doing so, having
once again sternly reminding his herified self that,
depending on how Janice felt about, what he presumed
would be, his infrequent sojourns as a femmed out to
the friggin' max of a bodacious blonde bombshell, this
might well be his last opportunity to indulge his ultra
fine herified self, Paul(a) made the little, mentally
phrased augmentation wish that changed the coloration
of his suit from its' former, chlorine bleached navy
blue, to the very same glistening silver that he - as a
she - had been favoring throughout the day.

	Rummaging around in the small duffel bag that
serviced as his dirty clothes bag, Paul(a) found a
previous worn white dress shirt and donned it.  The
heels promptly responded, turning it into a flattering,
sash girted, woman's terry pool wrap.

	Next, Paul(a) grabbed the heel supplied pocketbook
and located his room's key-card.  Placing it in the
right pocket of the terry cloth pool wrap, he then
opened the feminized version of his formerly manly
wallet and, extracting several one dollar bills, placed
them, via the stuff and cram method of insertion - none
to gentle mind you - inside the left pocket of the wrap
he was wearing.

	Taking a second or so to run through a mental
check list first, Paul(a) demurely exited his room and,
with those newly re-silverized spiked heels of his
clicking and a clacking in his wake, make straight off
for the motel's rather lavish appointed indoor pool and
recreational area.  Removing his pumps before passing
from the adjacent indoor/outdoor carpeted area, Paul(a)
proceeded onto the pool's tiled deck and, procuring not
one, but two towels from the fresh towel cart that the
motel staff re-stocked on a regular bases, made for an
unused table located about mid-way between the pool's
deep-end and its' shallow-end.  Operating under the
scrutiny of several male admires, Paul(a), keenly aware
of the attention that his bodacious bod of a body was
garnishing for him, but endeavoring to act as if he -
as a she - didn't, placed the pumps and towels on one
of the round patio tables that surrounded the pool and
then, continue on without pause to removed his terry
wrap and set it down smartly alongside of the
aforementioned items.

	Walking to the deep-end, Paul(a) tested the
water's temperature with a quick immersion of the gloss
enhanced toes of his right foot and then, without any
additional fanfare or folderol, crouched into the bent
leg stance of a swimmer's start and proficiently
executed a surface skimming racer's dive.  Fluttering
kicking to beat the band, Paul(a) propelled his
herified self towards the surface where upon, breaking
it, added the more efficient broken-arm pulls of the
windmill emulating crawl stroke.  Nearing the wall of
the shallow end, as he had done so many, many times as
a member of his high school's swim team, tucked that
ultra feminized body of his into a well executed, baby
bear of a flip turn; there by, reversing his direction
with a tremendous push-off of those new, long and ever
so lovely legs of his herified physique.

	Invigorated and feeling as if he - decked out in
this new, youthful and ultra feminized body of his -
could continue his full tilt sprint for another six
laps or so, much as he had during his teenage years
when his forte had been the two hundred free-style,
Paul(a), upon apprising his herified self of the fact
that he was quickly approaching the wall of the deep-
end, elected to serenely glide gently into it.

	Climbing out of the pool, with the gentle ease and
grace of a sea-nymph climbing onto her sunning rock,
Paul(a), un-phased by his recent physical exertions and
dripping rivulets of chlorinated water across the deck,
moved directly from the pool to the adjacent raised
wooden deck area which accommodated the rather
generously sized hot tub.  Mounting the steps leading
to the tub, Paul(a) realized that, even though he
wished he wasn't, he - as a she - was going to be
intruding on an older couple's privacy by joining them
in the muscle relaxing enjoyment of the hot, jet
swirled waters that the motel's jacuzzi invitingly
offered; justifying the intrusion by quickly reminding
his herified self that if he didn't, someone else no
doubt would.

	'After all,', Paul(a) reenforce his justification,
'the motel has provided this hot tub for the enjoyment
of all its' clientele...  So... like it or lump it...
I've got just as much right to use it as they do...'

	Pardoning his herified self, Paul(a), carefully,
so as to not step on the couple's feet, gingerly
progressed down the steps and entered the circular,
fiberglass enclosure and demurely sat that nicely
rounded, man-troubling derriere of his on the
encircling molded bench.  Closing those baby blue orbs
of his and laying that pretty little, golden maned head
of his back on one of the pads that were provided for
just that purpose, Paul(a) mentally chided his herified
self.

	Raging against the rules governing the proper use
of the English Language, Paul(a) managed to achieve
something that an English teacher would have declared -
in no uncertain terms - to be impossible.  While the
use of the damnable and despicable double negative in a
sentence turns the beleaguered statement into a
positive one, the use of the double positive dose not -
or so it is loudly and staunchly proclaimed by those
scholarly curmudgeons that make such pious declarations
- render the sentence in which the use of the double
positive is employed a negative one.

	'Yeah!  Right!

	'Old my ass!', he speculatively thought, as he sat
there, pondering the age of the couple with whom he was
presently sharing the hot tub with.  'Need I remind
you!  Old Buddy!  Old Pal!  While you may not look like
one - y'know, what with your present youthful
appearance and all... you're the old fart here!
Remember!  Everything - And I do mean everything! - is
relative!  While they might look a good ten years or
there abouts older than you do - Y'know, like right
here and now!  Y'know, with you decked out in this
Paula motif of your's! - The guy - Most likely the
woman's husband. - is at least a good ten to twelve
years younger than you are!  And the woman?  Maybe
fifteen...  Maybe more...

	'I mean...', Paul(a) sneaked a quick, one eyed
peak, 'she's still quite a looker.  A good body, fitted
out with a jim-dandy set of bazookas.  Pretty face.  An
attractive smile.  A good solid eight in mine or anyone
else's book.  However, she's got some millage on those
hands of her's.  I mean, if it weren't for her hands I
would have guesstimated that she's was in her late
twenties...'

	Then, as he - as the ultra fine piece of feminine
topography that the heels had turned him into - lay
there, luxuriating in the swirling waters of the
jacuzzi, a loud, abrasive commotion, resounding from
somewhere in and around the pool area, shattered the
serenity he was slowly, but steadily, sinking into.

	Duplicating the actions of the couple he was
sharing the hot tub with, Paul(a) sat bolt upright, so
as to appraise his herified self as to just what in the
hell was happening.

	Six guys - most likely the group of Air Force NCOs
the attractive young lady who was manning the front
desk when Paul had checked in had made passing mention
of - had bounded, rather gregariously, into the pool
area.

	'Shit!', Paul(a), realizing that he had
inadvertently left those recently silverized spike
heels of his in plain view, mentally exclaimed.  'That
tears it!  One look at the heels and they'll know that
there's a fairly good chance that there's an unattached
woman somewhere in the immediate area - y'know,
that's... as far as those horny-assed, liquored-up,
over-testosteroned bastards are concerned... fair game
and therefore, ripe for the proverbial picking!

	'And... to make matters worse!  Face facts!  Given
the way those spike heeled bad boys of your's gleam -
Y'know, to beat the friggin' band! - there's no way in
hell those assholes aren't going to see 'em!

	'Shit!  They just did!', Paul(a), pissed at his
herified self for not having taking the precaution of
using that terry cloth pool wrap to drape over those
stiletto heels of his as a means of concealment, reeled
as he slid back down into the tub in the futile hope
that he might be able to gain a cushion of time in
which to think of how he - as a she - was going to
extricate his herified self from what might prove to be
a rather daunting and perhaps, dangerous situation.

	Paul(a), motivated by that unbreached maiden head
that was nestled ever so snugly in between those nice
new, long and lovely legs of his, first impulse was to
get out of the jacuzzi; make for the table where he had
stashed his stuff; cursory towel-off and then, with
heels in hand, make a hasty and tactical retreat back
to the security of his room.  However, the more he
thought about it, the more perturbed he became with his
herified self for even contemplating taking the easy
way out.  Running, while an immediate solution to the
potential problem at hand, wouldn't always be a viable
option.  If he was going to pursue this heel induced
girl-thing of his in the future, Paul(a) knew that
there would come a time where he - as a high heel shod
she - would have to deal with sexually aggressive men.
He wouldn't always have someone to champion his cause,
like he had at the pizzeria, when that elderly
gentleman interceded on his behalf.

	So, Paul(a), though he was as apprehensive as all
get-out, figured that since it was more or less a given
that men were going to try and come on to him - as a
sexually re-make-over her - he might as well attempt to
deal with it right then and there and so, closed his
eyes and waited on the inevitable.

	He didn't have long to wait.

	A few minutes after he had come to his terror
inducing decision to see if he  - as a pure,
unadulterated, neophyte of pussy and titty equipped,
sexually make-over man - could handle the sticky wicket
of dealing with the unsolicited come-ons of other men,
men who most likely would be both egocentric and
overtly obnoxious, Paul(a) got his chance, as three of
the Air Force non-coms progressed boisterously down the
steps and proceed on to take seats within the hot tub.

	As they did so, Paul(a), though he - as a she -
did so surreptitiously, took note of the couple he was
sharing the motel's jacuzzi with uneasiness; especially
so, the woman, who Paul(a) thought looked extremely
pensive.

	'Shit!', Paul(a) thought as he - resplendent in
that silver, sock-it-to-me suit of his - was bracketed
by two of the non-coms, 'I should have slid around so
that I would have been sitting alongside of the woman.

	'Now, due to this grievous miscalculation of mine,
I've got not one, but two horny bastards sitting right
up alongside of me!'

	Even though the jacuzzi still could probably
accommodate one and, though it would have been a tight
squeeze, possible two more average sized adults, one of
the non-coms - the brashes of the bunch - had the
audacity, not to mention, the effrontery, to sit so
that his left leg and hinny cheek lay right up
alongside of Paul(a)'s.

	'There's one in ever group!', Paul(a), shimming
that succulently transmogrified tush of his an inch or
so to the left, mused to his herified self.  'And lucky
me!  Damn if he doesn't park that fat, arrogant ass of
his right up alongside of mine!'

	"What's the matter sweetie?  Sorry!  Didn't mean
to scare you off like that...", the guy, who Paul(a)
figured, was the group's self-proclaimed God's gift-to-
women, said in a mockingly couched voice that was - to
Paul(a)'s way of thinking - a whole hell of a lot
louder than was necessary.  His two partners in crime,
well aware of their buddy's perennial motus operandi,
fully aware as to what was to follow next, began to
snicker amongst themselves, which in turn, goaded
Sergeant Egotistical, to utter another time-worn pick-
up line of his.  "After all, what's a pretty little
thing like you doing here - All alone! - without a big
strong man around to take care of all those special
little needs of your's?"

	Paul(a), though he didn't think it would prove
successful, held up his left hand, displaying - for all
to see - the wedding band that encircled its' third
finger.

	"Oh, that ring don't mean nothing!"  Sergeant
Women's Bane jovially scoffed.  "And you know it!"

	Turning to look the offensive and obnoxious lout
square in his slightly inebriated eyes, Paul(a), as
coldly and as calmly as he could manage under the
rather daunting circumstances he - as a she - found his
herified self in, evenly replied, "It does to me."

	"Yeah!  Right!", the Sergeant Full-of-himself,
using his own mockingly stated version of the double
positive to declare a negative, returned gruffly.

	"So tell me!", the bastard, who smelled of cheap
liquor, wouldn't let sleeping dogs lie.  "Where is Mr.
Wonderful?  Back in your motel room?  Catching up on
his kitting?"

	"No...", Paul(a), taking charge of the developing
situation, countered.  "He's not here.  Fact is: he's
off who-knows-where... doing god-knows-what for the
Navy."

	"He's a squid!", the obnoxious bastard declared
gleefully.  "Your husband's a Navy-puke!"

	"Yes...", Paul(a) agreed, as he slide that
delectable feminized derriere of his forward and,
swinging his glaze-garnishing tush's left cheek of his
off of the seat's molded lip, pivoted to his right,
there by, bringing his knees around and up against the
knees of his would be accoster.  "He's a Navy-puke.
But... a word to the wise... don't ever let him or one
of his buddies hearing you calling him one.  You see,
they don't take kindly to that particular monicker."

	Haughtily, Sergeant Egotistical, as Paul(a) had
dubbed him, replied, "And what's he gonna do?  Whoop my
ass?"

	"If you're lucky... that's all he'll do..."

	"So, little miss... what are you saying?  Are you
trying to tell me that this Navy-puke of a husband of
your's is some sort a Navy Seal or something?", the
cocky bastard said as he defiantly slid his left hand
onto the arch of Paul(a)'s upper right thigh.

	Paul(a), reeling from the egotistical so-in-so's
overt and unsolicited sexually explicit contact, on the
verge of chickening-out and making a hasty retreat,
road rough shod over his damn near debilitating sense
of abject revulsion, and duplicated the bastard's
affronting contact by taking his newly demured and
nicely nailed left hand and placing it ever so
tentatively along the inner run of the thug's left
thigh and sliding it seductively upward, so that it
came to rest just an inch or so shy of the connecting
point of the guy's groin.

	Leaning inward, so as to gain the lecherous non-
coms' ear, Paul(a) brazenly reached up with his right
hand and began to run those distinctly femmified
fingers of his through the bastard's rather close
cropped hair as he softly and seductively proceeded on
to whispered, "I could tell you what my husband does
for the Navy..."  Paul(a)'s fingers - specifically his
ultra feminized thumb and index finger - traced a path
to the bastard's left temple and, upon arrival,
pinched, pulled and concurrently twisted a small wad of
the bastard hair, inducing extreme pain in the process.
"However, if I did!  I'd have to kill you!"

	Then, while the guy was being thoroughly
distracted by the damn near excruciating amounts of
pain emanating from his left temple, Paul(a), though it
further rankled that staunchly male ego of his to have
do so, quickly took that long and lovely nailed left
hand of his and, through the intervening material of
the bathing suit that Sergeant Egotistical was wearing,
grabbed the bastard's testicle sacks and squeezing them
for all he - as a she - was worth, gave them a hard,
corkscrewing yank.

	"Now... you son of bitch!  You're going to listen
to what I have to say!  And please,", Paul(a) gave the
bastard's balls another good hard squeezing tug to
punctuate the point he was about to make, "I urge you
to pay close attention!  'Cause there's going to be a
test at the end and, I'd be remiss it my duties as your
instructress were I not to tell you right up front that
in order to pass this test of mine and there by, re-
assume possession of these sorry-assed balls of your's,
you are going to have to achieve a grade of one hundred
percent.

	"Do I make myself clear?"

	The guy who's balls Paul(a) had a vice-like grip
on whimpered an unintelligible response.

	Mimicking Gomer Pile's Sergeant Carter, Paul(a),
in a clear and demandingly stern and stringent voice,
"I can't hear you!"

	"Yes...", the guy meekly managed.

	"Yes... what?", Paul(a) sternly demanded.

	"Yes... ma'am..."

	"Good!  Now that we've got that taken care of...
you arrogant son of a bitch... let's get something
straight between us.

	"And I'm not referring to that scrawny little,
adolescent sized prick of your's!  Understood!"

	"Yes..."

	Paul(a), giving the fellow's testicles another
pain inducing yank, once again pointed out the fellow's
deficiencies, "I hate to be a stickler about such
trivial matters... but given this new relationship of
ours... I really think that it would be in your best
interest to address me in the proper manner.

	"So, dickhead", Paul(a) brightened, "Why don't we
try that again.  Alright?"

	"Yes, ma'am...", Paul(a)'s accoster meekly
managed.

	"Good...  You see,", Paul(a) directed his comments
to the thirty-something couple who, it appeared,
couldn't believe what was transpiring before their very
eyes, "even an Air Force puke has the ability to learn
proper manners.

	"Alright, shithead!  I going to lessen the pain
your experiencing just a wee bit - y'know, so that you
can reach down and hold up those dog-tags of your's so
that I can peruse them.  However, I don't want you to
get cocky and think that you can weasel out of the hold
I've got on these here balls of your's.  Because, if
you do, I promise: I'll rip 'em off and feed them to
you as a late night snack!

	Paul(a) committed the brashly offensive young non-
coms' name and service number to memory.  Then, after
another quickly applied, nail punctuated squeeze, to
emphasize the fact that he - as a she - wasn't about to
take any shit off of the guy or his friends, requested
the guy state - for the proverbial record - his name,
rank and serial number, plus unit and commanding
officer.  Then, having obtained all the information he
deemed pertinent, Paul(a) directed the guy to take note
of a phone which was located just off the pool's tiled
decking.  The bastard, who was in no condition to offer
any sort of resistance, obliged and Paul(a) proceeded
on to tell him exactly what he was going to do once he
released his grip on the guy's testicles.

	"You see that phone over there?"

	"Yes...", Sergeant Obnoxious and Egotistical
struggled hard against the riving pain that Paul(a) was
continuing to engender,  "Yes, ma'am.  I see it."

	"Well, in a moment or so I'm going to let you go
and I going to go over there and place two calls, with
the first of the calls being to my uncle's voice mail,
who - I think you ought to know - is a rather
influential congressman of these here United State of
our's - y'know, as in he has something or other to do
with armed force's appropriation committee or some
other such nonsense...

	"In other words... you ignorant son of a bitch...
if you don't mind you Ps & Qs - y'know, like the good
little NCO that your mother hoped you'd grow up to
be... you're going to find yourself up Shits Creek
without a paddle!  Because... I'm going to give my
uncle a thumb-nail sketch of what transpired here
tonight!  Plus, I'm going to give him all your
pertinent information - y'know, like your name, rank
and serial number - where your based and the name of
your unit's commanding officer!

	"Understand, asshole?

	"Then, once I've finished with my uncle.  I'm
going to put in a call to my husband's unit and pass
along the same information - y'know, just to add an
extra measure of caution..."

	Having said that, Paul(a) continued on to say,
"Now... before I bid you and these buddies of your's a
fond adieu, I do believe that you ought to apology to
these good folks here for any undo concern you may have
caused them.

	Though he did so grudgingly, Sergeant So-in-so did
as Paul(a) directed.

	Paul(a)'s next comments were targeted towards his
accoster's service buddies.

	"I sure hope you guys are I lot more savvy than
your friend here.

	"I'm about to release my grip on him and after I
do, I trust that you two will make sure he behaves
himself.

	"In fact, I would strongly suggest and urge that
once he has recuperated to a point where he can hobble
about a bit, that the two of you take it upon
yourselves to escort him back to his room.  Where, I
think it would be extremely prudent for him to remain -
y'know, for the remainder of the night - y'know,
because I don't think any of us want him to do
something... shall we say - rash and there by, dig
himself a hole that he won't be able to easily
extricate himself from..."

	Having said what he - as a she - had to say,
Paul(a) released his grip on both Sergeant So-in-so 's
testicles and temple hair; bid everybody a gracious
goodnight; rose and unhurriedly exited the hot tub.
Making his way to the recently re-supplied towel cart,
Paul(a) picked up one and proceeded on to make a quick,
cursory towel-off.  Depositing the water soaked towel
in the wheeled, used-towel repository, Paul(a) procured
another and, as he continued to pad his herified self
down, made straight off for the curtsey phone he had
made mentioned of earlier.  There, he placed a call to
the front desk and asked if they would be so kind as to
transfer him to the lounge's extension.  After several
rings, one of the female bartenders pick him up, where
upon, Paul(a), playing the part of the dumb blonde to a
tee, asked a whole slew of inane and asinine questions.
Hanging up, Paul(a), having explicitly told that
obnoxious smartassed Air Force so-in-so that he would
be making two calls, placed another call to the front
desk and, once again proceeded on to make several
nonsensical inquires.

	Once he had completed the prevaricated sham of
calling that non-existent congressman uncle of his and
that inspirationally contrived snake-eater husband of
his, Paul(a), though he dearly wanted to cut and run,
didn't.  Feeling as if he - as the bodacious blonde
bombshell that the world at large would take him (as a
her) to be  - had to make a show of standing his ground
as it were, Paul(a), having dropped-off the towel he
had been using along the way, made for the pool's deep-
end.  There, having once again tested the water's
temperature with a quick immersion and subsequent
withdrawal of the glossed nailed toes of his
seductively arched right foot, as he generally did
before going whole hog and taking the proverbial
plunge, Paul(a) executed another racing diving and
began to churn the water with an energy charged crawl
stoke.  Four hastily completed laps later, Paul(a), as
was his wont, opted to switch over to a much more
relaxed and energy conserving, head-bobbing, glide-
recovery breaststroke.

	Ten laps later, having worked off a lot of the
stress and tension he was feeling as a direct result of
that hot tub confrontation of his, Paul(a), once again
calling up visions of a silver clad sea-nymph, climbed
ever so gracefully out of the pool.  As he did so, one
of the other Air Force non-coms, who, Paul(a) presumed,
must have been waiting pool-side for the opportunity to
do so, approached him.  Introducing himself as the
senior NCO of the party, he continued on to profusely
apologized for his subordinates' lewd and crude
behavior; promising, in so many words, that he would
personally insure that such an unwarranted occurrence
would not happen again and inquiring as to whether
there was anything he or one or more of his companions
could do to make amends for their cohorts uncalled for
conduct.

	Paul(a) tersely thanked the senior non-com for his
both his concern and assurances and then, having done
so, made his way back to the jacuzzi, which to his
delight, was unoccupied.  Rotating the timer that
controlled the whirlpool effect to the fullest extent
of is travels, Paul(a) entered the inviting waters of
the tub; seated his herified self; located a waterproof
headrest, lay that pretty little head of his back upon
it; closed those engagingly feminized eyes of his and
there by, surrendered that fantastic femmified bod of a
body of his to the tub's luxuriously swirling waters.

	A few minutes later, though he had never meant to
engage in such overtly crass behavior when out in the
public-eye, as it were, Paul(a)'s heel emasculated
right hand, caught up in the jet action of the water,
inadvertently washed over the inner run of his upper
thigh.  In doing so, Paul(a)'s damn near omnipresent
sense of simmering, female physiognomy based, male
libido driven, horniness perversely kicked in,
superceding his sense of proper feminine decorum and
he, though he was as yet oblivious to the fact that he
- here again as the gorgeous sheling that he had become
- began the opening feints in yet another
narcissistically couched game of titty-tweak and grab-
tush with his high heel herified self.

	A few minutes after that, once he became
consciously aware of the fact that he had been on the
verge of driving his herified self into a first class
sockdolager of a no holds bar sexual, self-induced pre-
orgasmic frenzy, Paul(a), eternally grateful for the
swirling froth of surface waters which had - He dearly
hoped and ardently prayed! - concealed his self-
targeted sexual ministrations, abruptly ceased and
desisted.

	Needing another minute or two to get that
femmified shit of his back together, Paul(a), sat
there, doing everything he could think of to keep both
his hands and mind occupied, so as to avoid a
resumption of his previous, crassly couched, self-
targeted endeavors.  He even considered taking those
herified hands of his and placing them under the well
rounded cheeks of that attractively formed feminine
buttocks of his.  However, the more he thought about
using that ploy as a preemptive measure, Paul(a)
realized that such an action on his girlified part
would have a whole bevy of unintended consequences.

	As the male he had been born to be, that old rump
of his had been anything but an erogenous zone.  As a
female however, that retrofitted derriere of his
feminine form had been, like a whole shit-load of the
rest of his bod of a femmed-out body, rendered sexually
re-sensitized; turning it into one big, though tertiary
ranked, horniness engendering erogenous zone.

	In other words, Paul(a) was keenly aware of the
fact that he couldn't sit on those sexually
ministrating herified hands of his and not run the very
real risk of precipitating another auto-erotic
stimulation session.

	That being the case, Paul(a) took those orgasm
inducing hands of his and, stretching out those
delectable emasculated arms of his to their fullest
extent, placed his herified hands on the tiles of the
hot tub's encircling upper lip.

	A few minutes after he had done so, after his
horniness quotient had settled back to what he - as a
spike heeled transmogrified she - considered to be a
manageable level, Paul(a) got up and promptly exited
the jacuzzi.  Returning to the table where he had
stashed his stuff, Paul(a) picked up a towel and began
the mundane task of drying his herified self off.
Wrapping those golden tresses of his in the other
towel, Paul(a) proceeded on to put on the terry cloth
pool wrap.  Having made the decision to walk back to
his room barefooted, so as to prevent the heels from
any water damage that might ensue were he to don them,
Paul(a) picked those silverized bad boys of his up and,
steering clear of the puddles of water that had
coalesced on the pool's encircling apron, began to
weave his way back to the sanctuary afforded him by his
room.

	Desiring to attend to the chlorine that  - without
a doubt - permeated both his hair and his bathsuit,
Paul(a) entered his room and, without passing go,
without collecting the obligatory two hundred
buckaroos, and without taking the time to laboriously
clamor out of the magically femmified tank suit he was
so seductively and perhaps, scandalously decked out in,
made straight off for the bathroom and its' promise of
a refreshing and invigorating shower.

	Using a more than generous amount of shampoo,
Paul(a), who had absolutely no friggin' idea as to how
to gauge how much of the hair-cleaning gunk he should
or shouldn't use, attended to those golden tresses of
his first.  Then, once he had washed all the suds out
of his hair, he applied a generous helping of
conditioner and then some.  After that, while he waited
for the conditioner to do whatever it was suppose to
do, he slipped out of that eye-riveting, silverized,
female transmogrified tank suit of his and proceeded to
rinse any residual chlorine out of it.

	'Shit!', he thought to his herified self as he
stepped out of the tub.  'It'll take me the rest of the
friggin' night to dry this femmified hair of mine!

	'Unless...', Paul(a) hit upon an idea that might -
where he lucky - negate the necessity of that time
consuming task in one fell swoop.

	Bust-wrapping his herified self in a fresh, un-
soiled towel, the way women were depicted doing in a
whole slew of those movies and television shows he had
viewed over the intervening years since his carefree
days as a pre-adolescent youth, Paul(a), closed those
compelling, long and lovely lashed eyes of his and
pictured the feminine rendition of himself once again
decked out in the sheared silver, satin eared and
cotton-tail-tuffed version of that simply scrumptious,
Playboy Bunny costume.  The heels, though he - as a she
- wasn't wearing them, gracious complied with his
wishes and - Wallah! - he was once again bodaciously
Bunnified.  Plus, Paul(a) had achieved what he had
sought to achieve in the first place.  His hair, which
had been a thoroughly soaked, tattered and tangled matt
before, had been rendered - via the heel's magical
where-with-all - both dry and fetchingly styled in a
most complimentary and casual manner.

	Thirsty, Paul(a) went to the room's small
refrigerator unit and, seeing that he had two beers
left from the twelve-pack he had purchased upon
arrival, grabbed one; pooped its' cap off and, plopping
that scintillatingly attractive tush of his down on the
bed, took a long, unlady-like swig of its' hop and
barley brewed contents.  Settling back, Paul(a) next
grabbed the remote and began flipping through the
provided channels, hoping that he might hit upon
something that might hold his interest.

	Ironically, clad as he - as a she - was in Playboy
Bunny regalia, A&E was running a biographical
retrospective on Playboy Industries founder Hugh M.
Hefener that, as one might well imagine, was peppered
with young, attractive damsels, many resplendent in
outfits reminiscent of the very one that Paul - as the
glamorpuss Paula - was even then trussed up in.

	Finishing his beer, Paul(a) contemplated downing a
second one, but quickly rejected the notion; thinking
that a second beer might blunt his senses a tad or two.
And, given the fact that he desired that those ultra
femmified senses of his to be up and running at an
optimum level for those narcissistic, auto-erotic hand-
jobs he fully intended on lavishing upon his herified
self ere he turned in for a good night's sleep,
Paul(a), falling back on the age old adage that claims
that discretion is the better part of valor, felt, in
that herified heart of his, that he was doing the right
thing by abstaining.

	Besides, if he wanted something to drink, he could
always drink water.

	But anyhow, as he lay there, watching the life and
times of Mr. Hugh Hefener flitter by on the TV,
Paul(a)'s staunchly entrenched male libido couldn't
help but be positively influenced by the scantily clad,
big breasted host of beauties that populated the images
that the A&E channel was serving up for not only his
enjoyment, but his enlightenment as well.

	As always, it was the film clips of the Bunnies
that tended to affect his rekindled horniness quotient
the most.  Each time they showed a girl or girls decked
out in the ears, tail, collar and cuffs of a Bunny
costume, Paul(a), though he initially remained
oblivious to the fact that he - as a she  - was doing
so, would either reach up; cup the undersized of one or
the other of those satin contained breast of his and,
employing a thumb and slow, seductive swirling motion,
played a short-lived, though none the less extremely
and erotically pleasurable, self-contained game of
titty-tweak with that fantastic herified physique of
his.  Or, when he wasn't targeting one of those ample
endowments of his, he would reach down and, using
either the index or middle finger of one or another of
the lovely nailed hands of his, draw it tentatively -
teasingly - up along the satin clad swath of that heel
imposed womanhood of his.

	Shocking the shit out of Paul(a), during the
segment of the show that dealt with famous women
celebrities who had some sort of association with Hugh
Hefener's empire, as in they either graced the pages of
Playboy or worked at one the Hutches, damned if they
didn't show the very picture of Gloria Steinem - in
full, satin-sheathed Bunny regalia - assuming that
quirky, hands splayed outward from her hips pose that
Ian McSomething-or-other had kiddingly cajoled Paul(a)
into attempting during the photo shoot earlier that
evening.

	And things just sort of snowballed from there.

	Soon, Paul(a) had succumb to that new, admittedly
narcissistically rooted sense of surging and not to be
denied horniness of his, so much so that in order to
gain clit-tweaking access to that newly installed
crevasse crease of his, he, not wishing to waste a
precious moment wishing the Bunny costume out of
existence, had employed those well manicured nails of
his to induce a run in the pantyhose ensconcing those
long and lovely legs that the magic invested high heels
had seen fit to equip him - as a her - with and, with a
little more finagling, managed to actually poke a
finger-admitting hole in the nylon mess that ran right
up alongside of the lower, pussy-concealing extremities
of the satinized Bunny Costume he was so seductively
trussed up in.

	Though it took some doing, and a hell of a lot
more hook rather than crook, Paul(a) managed, by the
nonexistent hair follicles of that attractively re-
sculpture chinny chin-chin of his, to wriggle the
pantyhose piercing middle finger of his dexterously re-
configured right hand beneath the rolled, double-
stitched hemline of the crotch ensconcing portion of
the Bunny Costume he - as a she - was so resplendently
decked-out in, so as to afford him - as a her - access
to the orgasmic-engendering nub of that vagina nestled
clit of his ultra femmified form.

	Zing!  Those magically and marvelously splayed
hips of his - Jolted! - shimmied.

	Zing!  Paul(a), helpless to stymie his herified
self, moaned, the deep throated moan of a sexually
vanished and thoroughly captivated soul.

	Zing!  His body, erotically polarized as it was
and acting on its' own volition, jumped.  It wriggled.
It squirmed.

	He squealed.  He screamed.  He pleaded with
unfettered emotional zeal, imploring the Almighty to
take special heed of his self-induced plight.

	The long, lovely and delicately manicured fingers
of his left hand were forced into doing double and
sometimes, triple duty, madly scurrying here to tweak
this; flying there, impassioned to caress that.

	Erotic stimulation ricochet off of erotic
stimulation.  Sensations, excruciatingly pleasurable,
doubled, re-doubled and then, doubled back on
themselves yet again.  They cavorted, billowing, like
an amassing and ominous sky-high thunderhead, gaining
efficacy and intensity as they frolicked and churned
around the gimbal of his heel induced maidenhood.

	Madly, Paul(a), unable to stay those terrible
talented hands of his, careened towards the ultimate
goal of his self-targeted endeavors.

	Then, in a kaleidoscopic, encapsulated moment of
intensely focused erotic release, the floodgates of his
physically induced passions gave way, wracking Paul(a)
with one tsunami-like orgasmic gush after another...
after another... after another... seemingly, in that
befuddled, wondrously bemused, orgasmic-enchanted and
thoroughly captivated mind of his, ad infinitum...

	Feeling both physically and mentally vanquished,
Paul(a), who was still experiencing the sexually
polarizing effects of a whole host of mini-orgasmic
after-shocks, wafted, ever so gentle, into the ever so
blissful warm-fuzzies of post-orgasmic contemplation.
Then, though he had planned on several more repetitions
of getting those feminized rocks of his off ere he
called it a night, Paul(a) was so tucker out that he -
as the incredible glamorous sheling that he had become
- slipped out of the post-orgasmic after-glow and
effortless in the comforting and cozy arms of a much
needed slumber.


* * *


	The next morning, just a little after six and well
before his scheduled wake-up call, Paul(a), who had
slept soundly all through the night, not even waking up
to take his normal mid-night leak, woke up to find
himself still all femmified.  And, as might be
expected, that rather frantically arrived at
realization of his distressed him to no end.  Then,
once he got his shit back together and did a little
mental arithmetic, determined - To his ever lovin'
relief! - that there was no need for him to panic.

	Though his calculations were at best a rough
guesstimation, he had spent a considerable amount
decked out in the heels on the previous day and, given
the fact that he had, his best estimation was that he
still had about a half to three quarters of an hour
left of residual girl-time.  If his body was still that
of a female after seven o'clock had come and gone,
then, he reasoned to his herified self, he might have
something to seriously be concerned about.

	'Shit!', Paul(a) thought.  'I spent the whole
friggin' night trussed up in a Playboy Bunny Costume,
though it seems that I must have tossed and turned some
during the course of the night and there by dislodged
its' ears and cute little tail fluff...'

	Then, as he lay there, taking, if you will, yet
another hand-groping inventory of his herified self,
Paul(a), who tended to adopt a pragmatic view about
most things, realized that he had been granted yet
another opportunity to dicker around with anatomy he,
until only recently, had encountered elsewhere.
Paul(a) was also well aware of the fact that if he was
going to do so, he better get cracking.

	Aware that his return to manhood was - He
fervently hoped and prayed! - just around the
proverbial corner, Paul(a), wishing not to waist a
precious second more, got down to the business at hand.

	'Odd!', he frustratingly and frantically thought.
'The crotch-access hole I poked in these pantyhose last
night is either gone or I can't - For the life of me! -
friggin' find it!

	'Maybe...  Just maybe...  the heels' resident
magic went and fixed it!  Y'know, to keep this
fantastically femmified topography of mine looking as
drop dead gorgeous as ever...'

	Knowing that he was on the clock - So to speak! -
and caught up in the narcissistically couched, male
libido driven heat of the moment as he - as a she -
was, saying, in that staunchly male mind of his: 'The
Hell with it!', Paul(a) closed those luscious, man-
beguiling baby blue orbs of his and mentally formulated
the wish that would unburden him of the liquid-silver
satin Bunny Costume that still graced that ultra
feminized physique of his and changed it - the Bunny
Costume - back into one of the motel's large bath
towels.  Then, once that was accomplished, Paul(a) with
a roll and a yank, tore the towel off his body and got
down to business at hand, with that business at hand
being: the newly acquired, though not quite yet
perfected, self-indulgent art form of feminine
masturbation.

	Once again, Paul(a), thankful for his good
fortune, realized that he - as a she - was one lucky
feminized son of a bitch, for he had just entered the
cozy and cuddly post-orgasmic enjoyment of the warm-
fuzzies when his residual girl-time petered out.  One
moment, he was a sexually super-sensitized babe.  The
next, that whole plethora of erogenous zones that the
spiked heels had so erotically fitted him - as a her -
out with, had gone the way of the dodo.  Reaching down
to his groin with his right hand, Paul confirmed the
fact that not only was that former clitoral nub of his
being transmogrified back into a full fledged and, more
importantly to Paul's way of thinking, fully
functioning manly, sperm spewing impregnation delivery
system, but the multiple lip-folds of his rapidly
vanishing vagina of his were, in like fashion, smoothly
and succinctly coalescing into the twin lobbed,
asymmetrical, manly testicle sacks.  Concurrently, his
left hand, which had reached upwards to his breast,
informed him that those ample endowments of his had
deflated, as it were, to half their former eye-
troubling, male libido torquing size and were
continuing, in what appeared to Paul to be a
logarithmic progression, to form and flow back into
their prior manly man's, slightly hairy, chest
composition and deportment.

	Feeling both dejected and elated all in the same
rather bewildering instant in time, Paul Meadows rose -
a little unsteadily at first - and, with a quick stop
to grab a T-shirt and pull it over his head, made
straight way for the bathroom and the blessed relief
its' toilet offered his topped-off bladder.

	Right off, Paul was well aware of the fact that
being a man did have some real advantages over being a
woman.  Specially so when it came to taking a leak.  No
muss.  No fuss.  And no infuriating tinkle droplets
running down your legs to attend to afterwards.  The
necessity of shaving he could have done without, plus
all those nagging aches and pains that had tenacious
re-asserted themselves, but all in all, Paul wasn't all
that unhappy about having that male, fifty-something
body of his back.

	Truth be told, though his body had seen better
days and he sure as hell wouldn't mind shedding about
twenty pounds and loosing some of that well paid for
gut of his, Paul was - all things considered - pretty
content with his male body.

	So anyhow, be that as it may be, Paul unhurriedly
turned to the mundane tasks at hand, with those mundane
tasks at hand being: brushing his teeth, shaving,
applying after-shave and deodorant and, from there,
proceeding on to getting dressed.  Selecting a fresh,
as yet unworn pair of faded blue jeans, a white, bulky
knit, turtleneck sweater and a pair of black, square
toed, ring-belted cowboy boots over a three piece
business suit, Paul got dressed and, since it was still
early, turned to the task of packing up the remainder
of his paraphernalia.

	Having done that, Paul, enroute to a near-by
restaurant for a hardy breakfast, made a slight detour
in order to take both his garment bag and, his recently
purchased, wheeled, handcart-emulating, push-me/pull-me
tag-along luggage thing-a-ma-jig out to his rental car
and placed both pieces in its' rather frugally sized
trunk in order to save himself the trouble of having to
attend to such later on that morning.

	Paul, whenever out on the road, tended to opt for
the wide variety of food offered by a breakfast bar
over the standard fair of menu ordered dishes.  And
even though it put him just a tad over-budget for this
particular out of town stint of his, considering the
fact that he had - he pleasantly recalled - received
that unexpected check for the modeling service he had
rendered the glamor photo studio, Paul felt justified
for the culinary indulgence he was granting himself.

	Back in his motel room, Paul, made a thorough
check of his room - just to make double sure he hadn't
inadvertently over-looked anything - and, with his lap-
top's carry-on bag slung securely over his shoulder,
exited the room and proceeded from there, to the front
desk where he quickly checked out.  Knowing that he was
in for a couple of tedious hours hanging-out at the
airport before he actually boarded the plane for the
flight home, Paul consoled himself with the notion that
he could use the time to map out a strategy that he
could use to convince and, failing at that, cajole his
wife into riding rough shod over her long held
aversions to such lofty heeled footware and to at least
do him the curtsey of trying on the high heels for him;
knowing that once she did... once those stiletto heeled
bad boys of his worked their rejuvenating,
transmogrifying magic on her... once Janice had been
turned into a first class, no holds bar, twenty-
something appearing glamorpuss... he'd be completed
vindicated, so much so that there was a fairly good
chance,  given his wife's track record, of his getting
lucky in the love department later that night.

	Dropping his car off at the rental agency, Paul
checked in early with the airline he was booked home on
and, upon receiving his boarding-pass, proceeded to
located the terminal he'd be boarding from and then,
with a few hours to kill, he began to browse about the
various shops available to him.

	Paul's flight home was uneventful and though he
wasn't at all happy about the fairly short, in-plane
lay-over on the tarmac of the Pittsburgh Airport so as
to facilitate the pickup and discharge of a few of his
fellow passengers, he put the time to good advantage
and thought he had come up with a way to approach his
wife when it came to the matter of enticing her to at
least try on the stiletto heeled pumps for him.
Arriving back at his home terminal, Paul, who had
fretted over the possible loss of those magical heels
of his, picked up his luggage and hopped a shuttle bus
that to take him out to the extended-stay lot where he
had parked his pickup earlier that week.

	Though traffic was heavy, Paul pulled up in his
driveway about an hour or so before Janice was due
home.  Using the intervening time to unpack and sort
out his belongings, Paul, upon coming upon it, took the
shoe box in which those heels of his resided and
stashed it up and behind a planter that sat atop one of
his living room's bookcases.  With that all attended
to, Paul secured a 12 oz. can of Diet-Coke from the
fridge, plopped down in his recliner, pulled off his
boots and, via the handy-dandy remote control, flipped
on the TV.

	Paul, though he would have ardently pooh-poohed
the accusation, was ancy and getting ancyer with the
passage of each and every minute.  Then, just as the
news promos began to heralded the advent of the six
o'clock news hour programing, Paul heard the telltale
sounds that clearly informed him that his wife's car
had just then and there pulled into their driveway.

	As always, Paul got up and, with a great big bear
hug and an accompanying welcome-home, heart-felt - Hey
honey!  I'm home! - kind of kiss, warmly greeted his
wife as she entered their house via the kitchen's side
door.  Taking Janice's coat from her, Paul, well aware
of the fact that they'd be going out again for diner,
draped it  on the back of one of the kitchen chairs,
and continued to follow his wife into the living as
she, as was her wont, began to fill him in on
everything and anything she felt he needed to be made
aware of.

	Then, once Janice had finished bringing him up to
snuff on matters she deemed both appropriate and
necessary, Paul, informing him wife that he had brought
home a little surprise for her, walked over to the
bookcase, reached up and produced the shoe box from out
behind the planter.

	Things sort of went as Paul had more or less
figured they would.  Upon opening the box and gingerly
producing the spiked heels, Paul was told - in no
uncertain terms, that while his wife really, truly
appreciated the sentiment behind the purchase of the
pumps, he shouldn't have wasted his money due to the
fact that he should have known better than to have
bought them for her.  Restating her long held aversions
to wearing such toe-scrunching, foot-pinching, hard to
get around in and down right treacherous footware,
Janice went on to point out that even if she could get
beyond both those logically and illogically arrived at
aversions of her's, even from halfway across the room,
seated on the couch as she was, she could plainly see
that the heels Paul held were of a petite size and were
therefore, way - Way! - to small to ever fit those
fairly average sized feminine feet of her's.

	Paul, seizing the opportunity afford him,
countered. "I'll bet they aren't!

	"Tell you what, dear... though this could get a
little pricy... especially so with Christmas only a
month or so in the offing... I'll bet you a diner at
your favorite restaurant that they will fit you!

	"Fact is: I'm so sure that they will fit you -
Comfortable!  Without even coming close to scrunching
those toes of your's - even though I'd be the first to
admit that they look as if there's no way that they
will ever come close to fitting you, I'll go you one
better!  I'll make it two diners at your favorite
restaurant and a get-away weekend out of town
somewhere!"

	"Where?", Janice wanted to nail down the
particulars.

	"Oh... I don't know...", Paul groped.  "Tell you
what, Jan!  You try on these shoes and if they don't
fit you, you get to pick the place!  Alright?"

	"Alright mister!  You've got yourself a deal!",
Janice replied smugly.  "Pass those toe-scrunching
monstrosities your holding over here and I'll given 'em
a try!

	"However,", she quickly added a hastily thought of
postscript, "if they do fit - Which it goes without
saying there's no way they will - that'll be the be-all
and end-all of it!  I will not wear them!  Understand?"

	Passing the pumps over to his wife, Paul clearly
clarified the fact that he did indeed understand.  Even
if the heels did fit, he was not to delude himself into
assuming that just because they did, Janice would ever
wear them; restating the fact, in clear and uncertain
terms, that he was well aware of the fact that she
wasn't an aficionada of that particular style of
feminine footware.

	Paul, though he did so grudgingly, had to admit
that his wife did indeed give it the old, and much
lauded college try when it came to her and her repeated
efforts to don the stiletto heels for him.  But, try as
she might - and she really did try - the petitely sized
pumps simply refused to expand to encompass her average
sized feet.

	"Try the other one, Jan.", Paul - perplexed -
urged.

	Janice, feeling sure that she would meet with the
very same results with the other pump, in an effort to
appease her husband and there by put an end to the
nonsensical effort in futility he had so cunningly got
her to participate in, via the sham of a bet, a bet she
would without a doubt hold him to, complied without
comment.

	Then, when her efforts once again proved futile,
Janice, adopting that haughty, I-told-you-so attitude
of her's, the very same attitude that had a marked
tendency to infuriated Paul to no end, said, "Alright,
smartass!  They don't fit!  In fact, they don't even
come close to fitting!  So, you now owe me two diners
at my choice of restaurants and an out of town, get-
away weekend.

	Thoroughly bemused, not comprehending why those
heels of his had resisted his wife's efforts to don
them, Paul quizzically mumbled under his breath,
"What's going on here!  I don't understand..."

	"You don't understand what, Paul?

	"I don't understand why those shoes didn't fit
you...

	"I mean... they should have..."

	"Nonsense, Paul!  Anyone could see they were way -
Way! - to small to begin with!"

	"That shouldn't have matter...", Paul, who was
still agitatedly perplexed, countered.

	"And why - Pray tell! - shouldn't it have matter,
Paul?"

	"Because..."

	"Because why, Paul?"

	"Because,", Paul felt absurd saying it aloud and
because he did, he did so meekly, "those high heels are
invested with some sort of weirdassed magic!"

	"Yeah...  Right!", Janice incongruously replied,
employing the unsanctioned use of the double positive
to put a negative spin on her comments.

	"The heels are magic and I'm the Queen of Sheba...
or something to that effect...

	"Come on, Paul!, Janice, rejecting her husband's
absurd assertion, mockingly scoffed.  "Magic!  Get
real!

	"Just where in the hell did you come up with that
ridiculous and silly-assed notion of your's?

	"I mean... am I to take it that you actually
believed that these high heeled pumps were going to
somehow magically re-size themselves so as to
accommodate these feet of mine?"

	Feeling the fool, Paul, though he hadn't meant to,
aggressively responded, "For starters... yes!  That -
In a nut shell! - is exactly what I thought they were
going to do, Jan!"

	"For starters?", his wife troubled, but curious as
all get-out to know what that inference of husband's
had surreptitiously eluded to, countered.

	Feeling as if he had been hornswoggled, Paul
gruffly picked the heels up from where his wife had
placed them on the coffee table.  Moving fluidly to the
recliner, Paul plopped his ass down on the lip of its'
cushion and, upon demonstratively placing those
stiletto heeled bay boys of his directly on the floor
in front of him, proceeded on to heatedly declare. "You
want to know exactly what these so called toe-
scrunching monstrosities can do, Jan!  Here!", he
continued on as he easily slipped his feet into the
pumps' satin lined maws, "Let me show you what they can
do!"

	Seeing - but not as yet believing - how effortless
her husband's feet slip into the spiked heeled pumps,
Janice was rendered - in that instant - incredulous
flabbergasted.

	Aware that Paul's feet weren't just a good bit
larger than her own, but a whole hell of a lot larger
than her own, a very bemused and befuddled Janice
stammered, "How...  How ya' do that?

	"I mean... there's no way in hell that those high
heels should have ever accommodated those size eleven
and a half gunboats of your's, Paul!

	"True.", Paul acknowledged the accuracy of his
wife's assertion.  "But,", he continue on to add, "as
you can plainly see, they did.  Didn't they?"

	"Yes...", Janice was pained to admit the truth of
what her husband had just stated, "They most certainly
did..."

	"Jan...", Paul, leaning forward and reaching down
with his right hand, drew his wife's attention toward
the change that was even then in the process of being
enacted on those former wool blended socks of his, "If
you recall, when I first slid my feet into these
stiletto heeled pumps, I was wearing my normal fair.
Y'know, as in I was wearing a pair of medium weight,
black knit socks.  Correct?"

	"Yes...", Janice tentatively announced her
agreement.

	Using the pinch and pull technique of opposing
thumb and index finger, Paul plucked some of the finely
woven material surrounding that newly feminized ankle
of his and presented it for his wife's inspection.

	"You tell me, Jan!  Does this material bare even a
remote resemblance to blended wool anymore?"

	"No, Paul...", his wife reluctantly admitted, "it
most certainly does not..."

	"What - And I'll take your best guess here, Jan! -
kind of material does it look like to you?"

	"Nylon...,", Janice, grudgingly supplied.  "It
looks like some sort of grayish brown nylon hosiery..."

	"Correct, Jan!  It is some sort of grayish-brown
hued hosiery!

	"And... unless I'm way off base here... given the
way its' been smoothly extending itself up these old
knock-kneed legs of mine... when everything is all said
and done, Jan... those old wool blended socks of mine
will end up as a pair of scintillating, silky feeling,
sheer to the waist, nylon pantyhose - y'know, that will
be - I'd be more than willing to bet - of a deep...
even... man-troubling... tropical suntanned hued
coloration."

	"Paul!, his wife frantically demanded.  "What's
going on?  What in God's Name are you trying to tell
me?"

	Instead of giving his wife the direct answer she
so ardently sought, an answer he truly believe that she
was not as yet ready to accept at face value, Paul rose
to his high heel shod feet and demurely pivoted about.

	"Jan!  Look at my jeans!  Look how form fitting
they've become!

	"Now!", he pivoted a little to the left and then,
back again to his right so that his wife, seated as she
was, could further inspect those newly re-sculpture
legs of his.  "Let me ask you a very pointed, if not
poignant and pivotal question, Jan!  Do these legs of
mine look like a pair of man's legs?  Or, do they look
more like a pair of woman's legs?"

	Though she hated to give verbal testament to the
irrefutable fact, Paul's legs did have not only a
distinctly feminine cast, but a seductively provocative
one as well.

	"Now, Jan!", Paul, playing the part of the hard-
nosed, in your face, visceral, take no prisoners kind
of prosecuting attorney to the hilt, turned back-ass-
wards, so as to present his next piece of compelling
evidence for his wife's inspections, "I put it to you!
Is that a man's rump or, does it look a whole hell of a
lot more like a woman's lusciously hung tush!"

	Jan, conceding the point, meekly and confusingly
replied, "A woman's...

	"Paul!", his wife's voice clamored.  "Just what in
the hell is going on?  What in the world's happening to
you?"

	Knowing how hard his heel induced ongoing sexual
transmogrification was for his wife to accept, Paul,
though he hated his herifying self for doing so,
succinctly put the proverbial ball back in her court
with his seemly cold hearted response, "You tell me,
Jan!"

	"You're turning into a woman...", Janice, still
disbelieving the evidence her eyes afforded,
tentatively and incredulously supplied.

	"Well...", Paul, in an effort to inject a little
levity into the rather tense situation he and his wife
were embroiled within, replied, "...were we to go by
primary sexual equipment aspect alone, Jan... since
I've now got a vagina - y'know, instead of a penis -
y'know, down there, in between these clearly femininely
re-sculpture legs of mine... you could say that I am -
for all practical purposes - already a woman...

	"This is absurd, Paul!  There's no way that those
heels can be turning you into a girl!"

	"Absurd or not, Jan!  You can see for yourself
what's happening to me!  And it's like they say!
Y'know, that the proof's in the pudding!

	"Oh!", Paul, keenly aware of what was to occur
next and wanting in the worst way for his wife to pay
close attention to the next aspect of his ongoing
feminization, made a conscious effort to make sure she
didn't miss it, "I really want you to see what these
spiked heel's have in store for me next, Jan!  Y'know,
because it's really something nifty to see transpire -
y'know, like up close and personal!

	"Jan!  Quick!  Focus your attention on my chest!"

	A moment or so later, Janice, unable to contain
herself, incredulous, though none the less,
enthusiastically proclaimed, "Paul!  This is crazy!
Absolutely crazy!  But there's no two ways about it!
As ludicrous as it sounds, you're actually growing a
pair of boobs!"

	"Yes...  Yes I am...", Paul, enjoying his wife's
state of bemused and multifaceted incredulity, whole
heartily concurred, quickly and proudly adding, "And
when everything is all said and done and this... shall
we call it - sexual revamping process the heels have
somehow magically induced - has moved on to address
other facets of my as yet male anatomy... I am not
going to have been fitted out with your plain old, run
of the mill, standard issue boobies!

	Oh, no!  I going to have myself a balls to the
walls, Jerry Seinfeld Certified, Elaine Bennette
fondled, Teri Hatcher confirmed, outrageously
spectacular rack of succulently ample, man-enticing
chest protrusions - y'know, that are fitted out with a
jim-dandy set of unbelievable super-sensitized
areolas!"

	"Areolas!  What in the hell are you talking about,
Paul?  What are areolas?", Janice tersely and
bewilderedly demanded.	

	"Oh!," Paul off-handedly responded.  Areolas!
Y'know Jan, as in they're the bumpy, dark-skinned area
encircling your nipples...

	"And let me tell you, Jan... this feminization
that I'm even now in the process of undergoing has
doubled, possible even triple the size of these areolas
of mine, turning them into two first class erogenous
zone in the process..."

	"Oh!", Jan, feeling a little giddy about the fact
that her husband was undergoing some sort of
progressively fluid feminization, used the opportunity
to release the massive amounts of gut-wrenching tension
she was feeling by getting in her own little jibe, "So
- I take it! - you've gotten to second base a time or
with this all new and sexually made-over you!"

	"Jan!", Paul - who was well on the way to once
again becoming the scrumptious glamorpuss Paula -
mockingly protested his wife's preceding accusatory
comments.  "How could you - My wife! - cast such
disparaging remarks on me - your loving husband?

	"Easily, Paul...

	"I mean... if you think for one moment that you
are going to stand here... looking more and more like
the woman you appear to be turning into with the
passage of each and every second... and try and tell me
that you didn't dicker around with all those new and
distinctly feminine attributes of your's a time or
two... oh, husband of mine... y'know, just to see how
the other half lives... I one: wouldn't believe you!
And two: I would have serious cause to be concerned.
Y'know, because it wouldn't be natural for a man -
y'know, like yourself... who is somehow magically
turned into a bonafide woman - not to experiment with
all those new feminine gadgets of his - y'know, when
the opportunity to do so presented itself!  Alright?"

	Replying with those just installed, male libido-
torquing, ultra sexy, throaty intonations that those
magically infused heels of his had so captivatingly
fitted him  - as a her - out with, Paul(a), once again
feeling like the proverbial kid who had been caught
with his hand crammed deep down inside of the sternly
verboten cookie jar, sheepishly replied, even as he
raised one of those as yet manly, slightly calloused
paws of his and used it, in a dexterous, albeit
clausal, off-handed manner, to maneuvered several
rebellious strands of those lengthening, golden hued
tresses that he was in the process of being fitted out
with, out form in front of that angelically re-
sculptured face of his femmifying physiognomy, "So...
If I'm hearing you correctly, Jan...  what you're
saying is: you're willing to overlook any indiscretions
that I might have engaged in with this bodaciously
made-over bod of a body of mine..."

	"In a nut shell, Paul... or, should I now switch
over and start calling you Paula... that about covers
it.

	"As long as those prior indiscretions of your's
did not involve another person - And please, Paul!
Tell me they didn't!"

	Paul(a), complying, repeated assured his wife that
all his previous indiscretions with his heel modified
self had been strictly of an autonomous nature and that
she had absolutely nothing to worry her pretty head
about as far as that sort of sexual tomfoolery was
concerned.

	Janice, taking her husband's assurances as gospel,
continued, "Good!  I glade to hear that, Paul!

	"Excuse me!  Paula...

	"However... since I'm not at all sure how I feel
about this new and rather convoluted development in our
lives... y'know, what with you and... what I presume to
be your new found ability to turn yourself into a fully
functional female - y'know, by simple putting on those
high heels that you brought home with you, Paul... I
think it would be wise for you to hold off on any
future sexual experimentation until I've had some time
to come to terms with my own feelings and we've had
some time to fully discuss the matter...

	"Alright?"

	Paul(a), aware that his wife seemed to be dealing
with his heel induced femmification a whole hell of a
lot better than he - even in his wildest dreams - had
ever imagined she would, without any additional
comment, concurred; assuring Janice that he would
abstain from playing grab-tush with his herified self
until they had everything sorted out.  In fact, to
placate any misgivings Janice might harbor, Paul(a),
though he hoped and prayed it wouldn't come to this,
graciously offered to abstain from messing around with
the heels ever again.  To which his wife replied,
"Let's not be hasty here, Paul!  Before we do
anything... commit to anything... we need to think
things out..."

	Janice, Paul(a) realized, was having one  hell of
hard way to go trying to reconcile what she had just
seen occur.  However, though she was, Paul(a) was also
keenly aware of the fact that his wife was never the
less, extremely intrigued with the notion that her
husband could, via the heels' resident magic, turn
himself into a woman, and a very - Very! - beautiful
and glamorously sexy young woman at that.

	"Paul...", Janice began with a marked degree of
hesitation evident in her voice.

	"Yes...", Paul(a), supplying the obligatory
response.

	"Just how much of a girl are you?

	"I mean... while goes without saying that you look
exactly like a female is supposed to look... and both
your voice and mannerisms are clearly that of the
female you appear to be... am I to take it that you now
think like a woman thinks as well..."

	"Not hardly, Jan...

	"As far as I can tell, this old beleaguered mind
of mind is still as manly entrenched as it every was.

	"I mean... while I might be - Physically speaking!
- a fully bonafide female myself, I still find that I
dig the shit out of women..."

	"In other words, Paul - Excuse me!  Paula!  - for
all intent and purposes, you're a lesbian?"

	"Yes...  However, you'd have to say that... as a
woman... I'm as much a narcissist as I am a lesbian..."

	"Oh!  Now that's interesting...

	"And am I also to take it that you can change back
into your old manly self again by simply taking those
heels of your's off?"

	"Yes...  Basically that's what happens, Jan.
However, it's a tad bit more complicated than that..."

	"How so?"

	Paul(a), without mincing words, continued on to
explain about the residual, accrued girl-time he would
have to abide once he removed the pumps.  Then, in an
after-thought, Paul(a) excitedly exclaimed, "Oh!  Jan!
Even though I know that I'll be I'm accruing a few more
minutes of girl-time by doing so, before I do remove
them - y'know, so that I can turn back into my old
manly self again - y'know, so that you and I can go out
and grab some dinner, there's something else I've
simply got to show you!  Y'know, that's - As far as I'
concerned! - really - Really! - neat."

	"Alright...", Janice replied, her skepticism
showing.

	"What I need for you to do - In just a second or
so! - is to close your eyes when I tell you to.  Then,
after... shall we say, a brief three count... I'll have
you open them."

	Having said that, Paul(a), affixing the image of
his herified self decked out in that snazzy, liquid-
silver satin turtleneck and black silk business
ensemble, directed his wife to close her and, with an
mentally concocted invocation to the heels he was
wearing, he proceed on to instructed Janice to re-open
them.

	"Oh, my!", Janice - flabbergasted to the nth
degree - reflexively exclaimed.  Stammering, "You...
You...  You look absolutely fantastic, Paul!

	"You're right!  Those heels of your's are really
something!

	"I mean... while you looked simply terrific before
- y'know, in the jeans and sweater... in that outfit...
built the way you are... you really are something...

	"Hell, Paul!  For my money, you have to be - Hands
down! - the prettiest damn woman I've ever seen!"

	Flattered by his wife's most recent remarks,
remarks that by in large dovetailed nicely with his
own, extremely biased self-assessment, Paul(a) knew
that those newly feminized cheeks of his had, of and on
their own volition, adopted the flush of a delightfully
glowing, rosy red coloration.

	"Wait just a ding-dong minute here!", Janice
crisply demanded.

	"You tricked me, didn't you, Paul?

	"You cajoled me into trying on those high heels
pumps of your's... believing... in that crafty little
heart of your's... that they do to my body what they've
up and done to your's!

	"You thought that if you could get me into trying
on the heels, they would turn me into the same sort of
raving beauty that you, yourself have become!

	"Fess up, Paul!  That - and not the heels
themselves - is the surprise you thought you had in
store for me!

	"I'm right, aren't Paul?

	"That was your intention all along, wasn't it?"

	"Yes...", Paul(a) sheepish admitted.  "That's what
I had hoped to achieve..."

	"Well...", it was Janice's turn to feel flattered,
"I appreciated the effort...

	"In fact Paul - Paula! - I don't think I've even
appreciated anything you - or for that matter - anyone
else has ever done or tried to do for me as much as I
appreciate what you have tried to do with respect to
these high heels of your's...

	"Now, while I know your motives weren't all that
altruistic - y'know, because you'd end up with one
bitchin' babe of a drop dead gorgeous, fantasy-lover of
a wife to dicker around in the bedroom with, I still
really - Really! - appreciate what you attempted to
do... regardless of the fact that you were one sneaky,
underhanded bastard in the way in which you tried to do
it!

	"And then there's the envy factor to consider
here, Paula!

	"Be advised, I'm so envious of you right now,
Paul, I could spit!

	"Nobody!  And I do mean nobody!  Should be as
balls to the walls as beautiful as you are, Paul!

	"It isn't natural!  It just isn't natural...

	Paul(a), aware that his wife needed to vent her
feelings, remained mute as he - as the sensuous and
supple dick-teaser that he had become - casually moved
to the recliner and, taking preventative, extremely
lady-like measures so as to insure that the black silk
mini-skirt he was wearing didn't ride up to far on
those seductively reconstituted thighs of his,
proceeded to park that succulent derriere of his down
upon its' horizontal cushion.  Then, once seated,
Paul(a), while remaining very attentive to what his
wife was saying, crossed his legs, here again, in the
dangling, foot displaying manner that men, by in large,
have a marked tendency to find so provocative.  Leaning
forward, all the while keeping that angelic face of his
firmly affixed on his wife's, Paul(a), enjoying the
hell out of the erotic stimulation he was engendering
in the process, teasingly slid that long and lovely
nailed and well manicured right hand of his down the
outer run of his pantyhose ensconced left leg, where
upon, coming into direct contact with the stiletto
heeled pump that so attractively graced that man-
troubling appanage of his, he started to remove it.

	"And just what in the hell to you think you're
doing, Missy?", his wife sternly and stringently
demanded.

	Though Paul(a) hadn't meant for his retort to
sound the least little bit sarcastic, it never the less
did, "What does it look like I doing, Jan?  I'm
removing these heels!"

	"Why?", Janice, opting to ignore what she took to
be her husband's thinly veiled sarcasm, quickly
queried.

	"Because, I'm hungry!  And, because I am, I
suspect you are too, Jan!

	His wife admitted that she was indeed getting
hungry and so, Paul(a) continued with his diatribe,
"So... given the fact that we both are hungry... I was
doing the prudent thing, with that prudent thing being:
I was going to take off these heels - y'know, so that I
don't accrue anymore residual girl-time than I already
have!

	"I mean... as it stands now, Jan, we're going to
have to wait a good ten minutes or so before I fully
revert to being my old manly self again..."

	"So...", Janice suggested, "...why don't you just
leave them on, Paul?"

	It was Paul(a) turn to be incredulous, "You mean
to tell me, Jan that you're seriously suggesting that I
go out like this?  In this body?"

	"Yes.", Janice's reply was even and matter-of-
factly stated.  "Sure.  I don't see why not.

	"After all, Paul, I can only assume - Unless, of
course you tell me otherwise. - that you went out in
public at least once over the last few days of your out
of town stay as the lovely, vivacious, amply endowed,
hip swishing, young thing those heels of your's have
turned you into.  Now didn't you?"

	Paul(a) sheepishly admitted that he - as a she  -
had ventured out of his motel room on severely
occasions during his out of town stint, prompting his
wife to insist on his doing so again.

	"But Jan!", Paul(a), knowing that he was facing an
up-hill battle, endeavored to change his wife's mind.
"If I do go out - y'know, as a woman, I'll be amassing
all sorts of residual girl-time!"

	"So...", Janice countered coyly.

	"So!", Paul(a) was bordering on the irate. "If I
do go out to eat femmed out to the max like I am now, I
won't be changing back into a man again until sometime
in the middle of the friggin' night!"

	"So...", Paul(a)'s wife was enjoying the hell out
of the situation.  "What's the problem, Paula?  The way
I see it: you go to sleep as a girl and you wake up as
a man.  Right?"

	"Yeah...  But...", Paul(a), disgruntled, replied,
knowing that he wasn't going to persuade his wife
otherwise.

	"Oh!", Janice teased.  "I know why you're being so
resistive to the idea of going out to dinner with me as
the lovely young blonde bombshell those high heels of
your's have so efficiently and effectively turned you
into, Paula!

	"You had high hopes of the two of us foolin'
around later tonight didn't you, dear?"

	"Yes... Jan,", Paul(a), backed into a corner,
sheepishly agreed, "I did at that..."

	"Well...  Oh, femmified husband of mine!  Tell you
what!  You go out to dinner with me tonight, decked out
in that simply scrumptious, feminized body of your's
and tomorrow morning, right after the two of us wake
up, I promise: I'll make it worth you while!  Alright?"

	Paul(a), knowing that his wife wasn't about to
allow him to wriggle out of what she had in mind for
him that evening, gave up the ghost and graciously
relented; suggesting, as he - as a she - did so, that
it might be prudent, given that it was Friday, for
Janice to put in a call to the restaurant and make a
reservation while he - as the she that he had just then
and there become - attended to the outfit he was
wearing.

	"And what - Pray tell! - is wrong with the clothes
you're wearing, oh, femmified husband of mine?", Janice
felt compelled to ask. "I'm mean... while they're a
little snazzy for my particular taste... for my money,
that outfit suits the new you to a tee!

	"So... my suggestion to you, Paula - For what it's
worth! - is to just let sleeping dogs lie - y'know, and
go out dressed just the way you are..."

	Then, having placed a quick call to make dinner
reservations for the two of them, Paul(a)'s wife,
putting on her overcoat and grabbing her purse and
directing Paul(a) to do likewise, proceeded to inform
her bodaciously feminized husband that she'd make a
rare exception and do the driving; inferring as she did
so that she wanted to hear a detailed, blow by blow,
description of everything that had occur from the
moment Paul(a) had come into possession of the high
heeled opera pumps, right up to and including the very
moment he arrived back home.

	Paul(a), though he felt really funny about getting
into the nitty-gritty of what had occurred at first,
especially so when it came to the sexually explicit
parts, did as his wife had requested.  Starting right
from the point where he had first spied those heels of
his at the mall, Paul(a) told his tawdry tale of sexual
incredulity and Janice, though she did interrupt a time
or two to seek either conformation or elaboration on
one point or another, allowed her husband the leeway to
spin his amazing and mind-boggling tale as he - as a
sexually transmogrified she - saw fit to tell it.

	Freely admitting that he had no idea why he had
purchased the high heeled pumps in the first place or,
what had compelled him to go so far as to actually try
those stiletto heeled bad boys of his on, Paul(a),
began the somewhat personally embarrassing and self-
affronting task of filling his wife on all the little
nuances of what had transpired with respect to him and
the heels and audacious, sexual makeover they had
somehow magically brought about.  He told Janice about
how he had experimented with his heel induced
feminization; how he had systematically proceeded in
stages; how he had come up with the residual girl-time
notion and how that residual girl-time theory of his
had proven, though the trial and error method, to be
correct.  He told Janice all about the digital snap-
shots he had taken of his herified self on that first
night.  He informed his wife about how those jockey
shorts and undershirt he had been wearing had undergone
their own special brand of feminization; becoming in
the process, a pair of French-cut, bikini-styled
panties and a spectacularly filled out white satin bra.
He mentioned the fact that, midway through his
experimentation endeavors, he had gone out to dinner
and how he had been so intrigued with what had occurred
up to that point, he, upon arriving back in his motel
room, had gone on to further experiment with the heels,
just to see what would transpire if he allowed the
transsexualation process to run its' course.

	Then, just about the time he was ready to begin
filling his wife in on what had transpired once he had
become a full fledged, card carrying member of the
Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice Club, Janice, who
was thoroughly intrigue and captivated with her
femmified husband's narration, pulled into the
restaurant's parking lot.
	
	Much to Janice's dismay and consternation,
Paul(a), fearing that he might be overheard by one or
more eavesdroppers, using his self-assumed
discretionary power, desisted from continuing on with
his extremely detailed account while the two of them
waited - none to patiently - to be seated.  Once seated
by the joval hostess, Janice, who was visible ency for
her husband to get back to the chore of filling her in
on what had happened to him during his out of town
stint, found it damn near impossible to ride rough shod
over her billowing sense of curiosity.  However, though
it severely tested her will power, she managed to
contain that curiosity of her's long enough to allow
their spunky and reasonable attractive waitress to get
them their drinks and subsequent to that, take their
order.

	"Paul!

	"Excuse me...  Paula!"

	"Yes...", Paul(a) supplied the obligatory
rebuttal.

	"Tell me something!"

	"Sure...  I'd be happy to, Jan..."

	"How's it feel to be ogled?  Y'know, like up one
side and down the other?

	"Weird...  Really weird...

	"And sometimes, Jan... depending on just who in
the hell is doing the ogling - creepy!  Really...
really... creepy..."

	"I can well imagine...", Jan emphatically
concurred.  "Some guys tend to carry it to extremes..."

	"They most certainly do.", Paul(a) whole heartily
agreed with his wife's assertion.

	"But then again, Paul...", Janice countered as she
began to point out the obvious, "...given how
attractive you are - y'know, as a girl, you've got to
understand that the attention being paid you more or
less goes with the territory..."

	"In other words, Paul - Excuse me!  Paula!  Like
it or lump it, you're stuck with it!  Y'know, like
right up to that aristocratically re-sculptured neck of
your's!"

	"Tell me something that I'm not already well aware
of, Jan!"

	A couple of minutes after that, Janice
sarcastically inquired, "So... now that you've had a
chance to get to get... shall we say... up close and
personal with that distinctly girlish anatomy of
your's... oh, femmified husband of mine... tell me,
Paula!  Do you think you've garnished enough of an
insight to pull off a passable Meg Ryan?"

	Quizzically, Paul(a) sought clarification, "Meg
Ryan!  I know who Meg Ryan is!  But, what - Pray tell!
- is a Meg Ryan, Jan?"

	"Do you remember the movie WHEN HARRY MET SALLY,
starring Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan, Paul?"

	"Vaguely..."

	"Well... there was this scene in this greasy spoon
in which Sally, who was played by Meg Ryan, faked an
orgasm - y'know, just to demonstrate to Bill Crystal's
character Harry that she could do so convincingly...
and I was just sitting here wondering if you have
gained enough first hand knowledge - y'know, dickering
around with that sensational, if not down right sinful
new body of your's - y'know, to do likewise..."

	"Jan!", Paul(a) incredulously countered.  "You're
not seriously suggesting that I sit here - In this very
booth! - and see how good an actress these heels have
turned me into - y'know, by seeing how well I am at
faking an orgasm are you?"

	"No., Paul!  I'm not suggesting anything of the
sort!

	"I was just wondering if... and - Mind you! - it's
purely a hypothetical IF - you were to duplicate Meg
Ryan's efforts... just how well you'd be able to pull
it off...


* * *


	Over dinner, Paul(a), leaning in over the table in
such a way that he damn near set those ample endowments
of his right smack down on top of the fine, 10 oz., New
York strip steak and stuff shrimp dinner he was in the
process of consuming and in a clearly conspiratorial
tone that was couched just above the decibel level of a
whisper, proceeded on with his lurid, albeit
fascinating tale.

	Thoroughly intrigued and keeping her comments to
the barest minimum, Janice sat there, listening with
rapt attention.

	Slowly, with as much detail as he could recall at
the moment and sometimes returning to something or
other he had made mention of previously, so as to
further elaborate on it, Paul(a) methodically brought
his wife up to snuff on what had occurred on his second
day decked out in those magically transsexualizing,
stiletto heeled, pointy toed dick teaser special of
his.  He told Janice all about how that elderly
gentlemen had so chivalrously interceded on his behalf
while dinning at the mall's pizza pallor.  From there,
Paul(a) proceeded on to tell his thoroughly captivated
wife about how that scrungy, leather-clad creepazoid
had - in effect - driven him into the jaws of that
glamor portrait studio and about what had ensued there
after.  He told her about what had occurred later at
the motel's lounge and how he - as the sexy little
sheling that he had become - had inadvertently run into
his partner in crime, Al.

	Janice got a real laughter-infused kick out of
hearing the cover-story that Paul(a) had, in so many
words, managed, by that non-existent hair of that
decidedly femmified chinny chin chin that the heels had
so marvelously fitted him out with, to pull out of that
man-tantalizing tushified ass of his.

	Desert came and went and in due course, once
Paul(a) had polished off a second, freshly brewed cup
of coffee, so to did they.

	Back home, seated at their kitchen table, Paul(a),
producing the check he had received from the photo
studio as compensation for the modeling service he had
so exquisitely provided them and informing Janice that
they should be on the lookout for either a UPS or a
FEDEX delivery sometime during the up-coming week,
began to recount the tawdry tale revolving around what
had happened to him when he had so innocently availed
his herified self of the motel's indoor pool and hot
tube facilities and how that egotistical, over-
testosteroned Air Force non-com had tried to come-onto
him in such a brash and brutish manner.

	Janice, upon hearing how her seductively femmified
husband had handled the arrogant and egotistical so-
and-so, informed Paul(a) that he had done good; that he
had given the bastard the comeuppance he deserved.

	Then, once Paul(a) brought his incredible
narrative to its' chronological conclusion, as
expected, Janice, always the inquisitive one, had
amassed a whole shit-load of pertinent questions.
Leapfrogging, in a very non-threatening way, from a
very issue specific objective inquiry, such as a more
detailed, second rendition of his initial
experimentation efforts with the spiked heels,  to a
very subjective one, such as his over all impression(s)
about this, that or the other girl-related thing, in a
very random and haphazard fashion, Janice thoroughly
de-brief her husband.  She asked him all sort of
things.  According her husband much as she would have
her very bestest, bosom-buddy, soul-mate of a teenage
girl friend, Janice, as if she were doing nothing more
than comparing notes, asked Paul(a) how he felt about
this and how he felt about that.  Doing so, Janice,
sometimes tactfully, sometimes not, delved into the
various impressions that her husband had garnished from
his stints spent trussed up in the simply scrumptious
and spectacular female physiognomy that the heels had
so lavishly thrusted upon him.

	Three and a half hours came and went in the wink
of an eye and, though Janice had only begun to
scratched the surface of the things she dearly wanted
to inquiry about, Paul(a), sitting there, yawning away
to beat the band as he - as a she - was, had reached a
point where, had he still possessed that manly, sperm
spewing swagger stick of his, was to pooped to
proverbially pop.  And because he  - as a she - was,
Janice, though she was none to happy about calling it
quits for the night, saying that they would - with an
unchallengeable certainty - continue their conversation
on the morrow, prudently suggested that it was high
time for the two of them to be getting to bed.

	And that's just what the two of them did.  Though
it had been a Year of Sundays since Janice had shared a
bed with another woman, that night, she crawled under
the sheets without giving that matter so much as a
single, solitary thought.

	Hell, it didn't even phase Janice when Paul(a),
femmified out to the friggin' max as he - as a she -
was, rolled over and, forgetting for the moment the
sexual incongruity of what he was about to do, planted
a very husband-like goodnight kiss full on the
receptive lips of his wife.

	Then, upon realizing the sexual faux pax that he -
as the she the heels had temporarily turned him into -
had just then and there committed,  began to profusely
apologize for his inadvertent and possible, affronting
actions.

	Janice, aware that nothing untoward had occurred,
pooh poohed her husband's concerns out of hand.
However, Janice, in a conciliatory maneuver, enfolded
her husband's femmified left hand in her own right one
and quickly proceeded on to add an admonition in which
she cautioned Paul(a) to think twice before trying
anything else; reminding him - in no uncertain terms -
that while she probably could close her eyes and there
by see her way clear to allowing Paul(a) - as Paula -
the leeway to sexually minister to her own carnal
needs, he - while a she - couldn't expect Janice to
return the favor.

	"Maybe, Paul...", Janice added tenderly,
"...someday... in the far off unforeseeable future...
I'll be able to get passed these long held aversions of
mine - y'know, concerning me and my engaging in lesbian
activities - y'know, so that I can do unto you as you
have so selflessly done unto me on so many numerous
occasions, Paul - y'know, so that you get to experience
the pleasures derived from being the recipient of oral
sex from a purely woman's point of view..."

	Strangely, in complete contradiction to his wife's
previously spoken disclaimer, Paul(a), still ensconced
within that scintillating feminine physiognomy of his,
stirred from sleep somewhere in and around three
o'clock in the morning, only to find that Janice - nude
as the day she was born - had body-molded herself about
Paul(a)'s naked as a friggin' jay bird of a amply
endowed and femininely crevasse creased physique...
in... shall we say... a lovingly embracing, snuggling,
sort of cockles of the heart warming and endearing way.

	The next morning, Paul woke to find himself not
only once again the male he had been born to be, but as
horny as all get out.  Janice, without any coaxing or
cajoling on her husband's part, did as she had promised
and within minutes, the two of them were embroiled in a
mutually satisfying and much anticipated love-making
session.

	After that, after their carnal needs had been
satisfied and then some, the two of them got up;
showered; got dressed and went out to a nearby local
establishment for a tasty and thoroughly enjoyable mid-
morning breakfast.  Though both despised the necessity
of having to do so, the local wholesale club was the
next stop on their weekend's agenda.  Walmart followed
and then, before returning home, they hit the food
store and a video store, where they picked a picture
they had really wanted to catch when it was at the
theaters, but, for some reason or another, they had
missed it.

	Returning home somewhere around three thirty or
there abouts that afternoon, on Janice's insistence,
Paul took the diskettes containing the two sets of
pictures he had taken of his herified self and down-
loaded them to his desk-top PC and proceeded to set up
a slide-how presentation so that he and his wife could
better pursue them.

	That evening, having pretty much devoured a large,
three-topping pizza that they had called out for,
Janice informed her husband that before they watched
the video, she would like Paul to don the heels and put
on a little impromptu fashion show for her.  Though a
little reticent at first, Janice finally managed to
persuade her husband to accede to her wishes.

	Then, after Paul - as the curvacious sexpot Paula
- had magically donned several different outfits, with
the liquid-silver gown being one of them, Janice
impishly informed her husband that she wanted to see
for herself what he - as a she - looked like decked out
in the silverized version of the Playboy Bunny Costume
that he had been wearing in quite a few of the pictures
he had taken of his herified self during his out of
town stint at the tech fair.

	Though it took quite a bit of cajoling on Janice's
behalf, plus a few well placed veiled threats, one of
which actually went so far as to threaten bodily harm,
to convince Paul(a) that resistance was indeed futile,
he final gave up the ghost and complied and - Wallah! -
with an eye-flutter and a mentally fabricated wish he -
as the glamorpuss he had become - was rendered
bodaciously and brazenly Bunnified.

	Adopting the in-for-a-penny-in-for-a-pound mind-
set, Paul(a), resplendent in the perky ears, tail
fluff, bow tie, collar and cuff of the scantily clad,
female denizen of the gone by not forgotten Playboy
Hutches, figured that a little light-hearted role-
playing was in order and so, graciously offered to
fetch both he and his wife an iced down soda from the
kitchen.  A minute or so later, with a pair of frosted
soda mugs carried deftly upon a butcher border that
sufficed in lieu of what one might term a regulation
serving tray, Paul(a) came prancing back into the
living room and, dexterously executed a textbook
enunciated Bunny Dip as he teasingly proceed on to
serve his delightfully flabbergasted wife her diet
soda.  Then, having done that, Paul(a), still in full
Bunny regalia, ambled over to their living room's
entertainment center and, turning on the TV, placed the
movie that they had rented in the VCR.  Returning to
the sofa, he sat; picked up the remote and hit the PLAY
button.

	Having spent most of the night femmed out to the
max, much as he had done on the previous night, Paul
woke that Sunday morning and once again was treated to
a very satisfying and extremely pleasurable sexual
tete-a-tete with his wife.

	"You know something... oh, husband of mine...",
Janice teasingly inquired.

	"While I never - Ever! - thought such possible...
I must say that as result of your spending time as an
anatomically correct female... take it from me... your
love-making techniques have improved considerably..."

	"They have?", Paul was surprised to his wife's
pronouncement.

	"Yes, Paul...  Take it from me!  They most
certainly and assuredly have..."

	"Yesterday... I thought it might have been nothing
more than a fluke - y'know, created by the novelty of
you and this new found ability of your's to do part-
time stints as a fully functioning female!  Today
though... considering what you just now up and did to
me - y'know, with respect to those newly refined love-
making techniques of your's and what they did to this
body of mine... I must say that where you were a superb
and extremely adept lover before... you are now the
epitome of what we women want in a male lover."

	"I am..."

	"Yes, Paul.  You most certainly are.

	"In fact you're not just fantastic.  You are so
far beyond fantastic that it isn't funny...

	"I mean... you've got to admit that now that
you've spent time as a woman yourself, you've got
insights that other men don't have!

	"You not only know where to touch!  But how to
touch!  And how long to touch - y'know, before moving
on to target some other erogenous zone!

	"And believe me!  That gives you an advantage that
other men just don't have...

	"In fact... just to make sure you don't do any
serious back-sliding - y'know, in so far as these new
and improved and supercalafragilisticexpealidiciously
enhanced love-making techniques of your's are
concerned... oh, husband of mine... I've come to the
conclusion that we need to make doubly sure that you
spend a fair amount of time each week as a woman -
y'know, just to make sure you keep in tip-top shape..."


* * *


	Janice proved true to her words.  On her
insistence, Paul, starting that Sunday, spent anywhere
from one hour to five hours each and every evening
there after decked out in those stiletto heels of his.
That meant, once the accrued residual girl-time was
factored into the equation, Paul, on his wife's
urgings, logged anywhere from two to ten hours of
blonde bombshellhood-time per day.

	True, much of Paul's extended accrued girl-time
was logged while fast asleep and Janice, who assumed
the role of the supervising gate-keeper, made doubly
sure that her husband was once again occupying his
normal, male body when six o'clock in the A.M. rolled
around.  Janice also made sure that her husband had
some personal, bedroom time during those hours when he
was femmed out to max in order for him to address those
narcissistic, male libido torquing needs of his, the
very same narcissistic and male libido torquing needs
that would - Janice ardently hoped - keep those newly
and improved love-making techniques of her husband's
operating at optimum levels.

	Generally, somewhere in an around the hour of ten
o'clock in the evening, Janice would teasingly suggest,
and failing that, strongly urge Paul - as the femme
fatale Paula - to head on off to their bedroom a little
bit early; saying as she did so, that she would be
along right after the weather report portion of eleven
o'clock news hour.

	That Thursday, on his wife's adamant insistence,
Paul - as Paula - did something that he really didn't
want to do.  One of Janice's co-workers was hosting a
housewares party and Janice, in a no nonsense, matter
of fact manner informed her husband on Wednesday - that
he - as a high heel shod she - was going to accompany
her.  Adopting the bogus persona of his wife's niece,
Paul(a), much to his chagrin and consternation, was
coerced into tagging along.

	The next Monday, with Janice's blessings and a
stern admonishment for him to keep those newly enhanced
love-making techniques of his up to snuff, Paul, with
those sexually transmogrifying, magical high heeled
pumps of his packed securely away in his push-me/pull-
me, handcart, luggage, thing-a-ma-jig headed off for
the airport and another five day/four night, business
mandated out of town sojourn.


Epilog


	Paul and Janice soon had irrefutable proof that
life is laced with a whole multitude of unintended
consequences.

	When UPS delivery the photo portfolio containing
all those pictures of her ultra feminized husband,
resplendent in all those snazzy and sexy outfits that
he had conjured up with the aid of the heels' resident
magical where-with-all, Janice took upon herself to
quickly stop by a craft supply outlet on her way home
the following evening and there, purchased a wide
variety of picture frames.  After a cozy dinner,
Janice, adopting her infamous she-who-must-be-obeyed-
attitude, co-opted Paul into giving her a hand hanging
and placing the newly frame photographs in what she
deemed to be a few in key places around their
household.

	For instance, Janice placed one of the large,
portrait/head shots of Paul - in his angelic, golden
tressed Paula motif - on her dresser.  Using another
portrait/head shot, in this particular instance, a much
smaller, wallet sized one, Janice, having cropped it
down to an even smaller size that would fit, placed it
in one of those handy-dandy magnetic picture holders
and promptly stuck it on the door of their
refrigerator.  Then, just to be funny, Janice took one
of the full body photos of her amply endowed and
Playboy Bunny clad husband and, over his pained, albeit
half-hearted objections, had him hang it prominently on
the wall of their master bedroom's bathroom; saying as
she did so that if anyone should ever ask her why they
had a picture of a Playboy Bunny hanging on their
bathroom's wall, she would say that it was Paul - and
not her - who had insisted on the picture being there;
suggesting, through under-stated innuendo, that her
husband had this quirky THING for Playboy Bunnies and
that over her long stated objections, he had hung it
there...

	Later, while Paul, on Janice's urgings, was up in
their bedroom, donning those sexually transmogrifying
heels of his and there by, triggering the
transseualization process that would in short order,
turn him into the sexy sheling, Little Ms. Hot To Trot,
Janice, acting on a quirky whim of her's, took one of
the intricately wrought, five by seven Celtic
influenced designed pewter frames she had purchased on
her way home that evening and placed a full body
picture of Paul(a), decked out in that glamorous,
upper-torso molding, flowing, liquid-silver satin
evening gown within it.  Then, even as she heard the
tell tale clickety-clack of Paul(a)'s heels resounding
off of the hardwood flooring of the front stair's
upper landing, Janice took the pewter framed five by
seven of her femmified husband and placed it in a
previously used shopping bag.  The bag she then took
and placed it with her pocket book.

	The next morning, upon arriving at work, the very
first thing that Janice Meadows did right after hanging
up her coat, was to take that pewter framed picture of
her fantastically femmified and glamorously attired
husband out of the plastic shopping bag and placed it
on one of her cubical's shelves, amid the several other
family pictures that, along with a couple plants,
personalized her designated work area.  A few minutes
after that, having secured her first of several morning
cups of coffee, Janice returned to her cubical only to
find two of her cohorts standing within it, both
curious and determined to know just who - exactly - the
girl in Janice's new picture was.

	Janice, prepared for such an inquiry and adopting
her husband's previously adopted ploy, matter-of-factly
replied, "Oh... her!  She's my niece...

	"Pretty isn't she?", Janice added in an off-handed
manner after a short, speculative pause.

	"Yes...", first one and than the other of her
work-mates chimed in with an agreement.

	"What is she, Jan?  A high fashion model or
something?"

	"No...", Janice thoughtfully replied, as she
turned and took another long and appraising look at the
picture of Paul - as Paula, "...though she could be one
- y'know, if she wanted to be..."

	"You got that straight, Jan!", one of her cohorts
merrily proclaimed.

	"Yes!", her other work-mate enviously supplied.
"If ever a girl had what it takes to be a high fashion
model... or a cover girl... or whatever... that
gorgeous niece of your's most certainly has it in
spades, Jan..."

	All throughout that day, whenever Janice stole a
quick glance at that pewter framed picture of her
bodaciously attired. ultra femmified husband, those
comments of her co-workers, plus a smattering of other
unsolicited opinions, opinions that pretty much echoed
the very same sentiments concerning how that bogus
niece of hers had high fashion model written all over
her, got Janice to engage in some serious thinking.
'Maybe...", she thought to herself, "...this modeling
business isn't as farfetched as I first thought it to
be...  Maybe... it might be just what Paul and I have
been looking for...

	"I mean... if Paul could use those high heels of
his to facilitate his doing a little modeling on the
side... maybe... just maybe... he could make enough
extra cash for us to take some of those dream vacations
that the two of us have been wanting to take... but
just couldn't see our way clear to affording - y'know,
because all our scrimping and saving in order to get
those two kids of ours through college and out on their
own..."

	The more Janice though about the possibility of
goading her husband into pursuing a part-time model
career, the more she warmed to the idea.  That evening,
while a high heel transsexualized Paul(a) was in their
spare bedroom slash home office, puttering around on-
line, Janice, on the QT, began to assemble a portrait
portfolio of Paul - as the fetchingly attractive Paula.
The next day, while again at work and, because she was,
still operating on the QT, she continued her
preparations by employing the phone book and looking up
the local modeling and advertising agencies that were
readily available to her.  Biding her time until her
husband was once again out of town, Janice, via the let
your fingers do the walking gambit, began to make some
discreet inquires as to just how to go about getting
Paul - as the lovely Paula - his first modeling gig as
a girl.

	Arriving home late that following Friday, Paul,
who had remained totally oblivious to what his wife had
been up to while he had been away, learned, much to his
chagrin and consternation, that Janice had their
Saturday all mapped out for them.  While he had been
out of town, Janice had been a busy bee, scheduling a
grand total of four modeling interviews - two in the
morning and another two in the afternoon for Paul - as
Paula - and herself, acting as her femmified husband's
personal agent, to attend.

	As Janice had anticipated, all four agencies
displayed an eager interest in obtaining Paul(a)
services.  Two, in fact, without even glancing through
Paul(a)'s portfolio, actually went so far as to try to
put him under contract on the spot, but Janice, having
spent a good twenty years prior to her present job as a
legal secretary for a contact lawyer, was wise to their
ploys and because she was, she drove a hard bargain.

	A week after that, Paul - as the stiletto heeled
wearing blonde bombshell Paula - playing the role of a
potential buyer, participated in his first TV
commercial, shilling product for a local car dealer.  A
week after that, he made another and the week after
that, yet another.

	Then, given that ultra sexy voice that the he - as
a she - had been fitted out with, Paul(a) started
receiving requests to do locally targeted radio
advertisements and voice-overs as well.

	Shortly there after, Paul(a)'s modeling career
took an up-turn, as he - as a she - graciously accepted
the spokes-person role for a locally based charity
group that had the unintended consequence of netting
him - as a her - regional exposure.

	Three months after that, to help facilitate his
being able to avail his herified self of the all the
various modeling gigs he - as a she - was being
offered, Paul, who was past due for a job rotation,
requested and dully received a re-assignment which
relieved him from the necessity of have to spend so
much of his time out on the road hawking wares for his
company.  Two months after that, Paul, realizing that
he could make a hell of a whole lot more money pursuing
a modeling career as the high heel wearing glamorpuss
Paula, handed in his two weeks notice.  A month and a
half following that, Janice, aware that managing her
husband's modeling career was becoming a full time
occupation, did likewise.

	A CEO from one of the more well known beer
companies, who was in town attending a major sporting
event between the team he was partial owner of and the
locally based team, happened to see one of the
commercials that Paul(a) was being prominently featured
in, and that - as they say - was that.  Premiering
during the Super Bowl, Paul - as Paula - was featured
in three separate promos, each one a humorous, modern
day variation of the old, enchanted frog-prince story
in which Paul(a)'s character starts off as this whining
and complaining, gecko/chameleon-like lizard creature,
who is tenaciously clinging to this leafless branch
above this swampy area, which is in turn, just happens
to be located just across a dirt road from this
dilapidated, badly in need of repairs, good-old-boys
type of road-house watering hole - y'know, were the
beer signs just happens to be prominently displayed as
it continuously flickers, haphazardly blinking on and
off in the background.

	So anyhow, in the first of these three related
spots that very cunningly was aired between the first
and second quarters, this obviously beleaguered
gecko/chameleon-like lizard is being razed and
ridiculed by a couple of obnoxious bullfrogs, until one
of the frogs - the big one - takes this real, real,
extra long, kaleidoscoping tongue of his and plays a
dastardly affronting game of fly-swatter on the
gecko/chameleon-like lizard's face, knocking the poor
critter off of the branch it was tenaciously clinging
to and into the brackish water of the swamp, where
upon, it - the gecko/chameleon-like lizard -
instantaneously turns into the fetching lovely, water
drenched, disheveled haired, denim clad, amply endowed,
blonde bombshell and presumedly would be beer guzzler
Paula.

	During the half-time break, the second commercial
of the triad was run in which the water drenched, denim
and stiletto heel clad, ex-gecko/chameleon-like lizard
turned knock down, drop-dead gorgeous temptress, as
deftly portrayed by the magically transsexualized
Gretchin Manborn, a.k.a.: Paul(a) Meadows, with the
frogs looking forlornly on from their respective lily
pads, makes her way up the swamp's mud encrusted
embankment, across the dirty, rutted back-country
thoroughfare and with a bemused and befuddled glance
towards the asynchronously flickering beer sign,
proceeds, somewhat unsteadily, into the bar, where
upon, she garnishes the lewd, leering and lascivious
attention of all of the place's macho, plaid shirt,
jeans and cowboy boot wearing, beer guzzling male
patrons.

	Then, sandwiched neatly in between the third and
fourth quarters of what had been a pretty lack-luster
football game up to that point, the third and final
segment of Paul(a)'s three inter-related beer
commercials was aired, in which he - in his persona as
a water drenched and extremely bewildered chesty
sexpot, approaches the bar and without asking, grabs
some swinging dick's amber hued long-neck right out of
the big lummox's hand and placing it to those luscious
and erotically appealing lips of his angelic
countenance, drains it to the dregs, where upon he - as
a she - undergoes an immediately transformation,
becoming a sultry and saucy, hot pants and halter top
clad good old girl, who then turns to address the
place's gawking patrons, saying - in so many words -
that what she could really go for was a good, down-home
cooked platter of juicy, fried up frogs legs.

	On the merit of those three Super Bowl aired
commercial spots alone, Paul(a), under the recently
legally assumed nom de plume of Gretchin Manborn,
gained for his herified self the exalted ranking of
super-model.  That Monday, save for the sport-related
commentary, everybody - and everybody's brother and
politically correct sister - who had seen those cutely
couched spots was talking about the stunning blonde
bombshell who portrayed the young woman that the
gecko/chameleon-like lizard so charmingly turned into;
wanting to know who she was and when and if they would
see more of her in the future.

	And see her, they did.

	Before the months was out, Paul(a), as the lovely
and vivacious super-model elevated Gretchin Manborn,
starting right off with the next issue of LIFE, began
gracing the covers of a whole shitload of periodicals.
America had found itself a new celebrity to over-dose
on and that celebrity was none other than the pretty
and perky Gretchin Manborn.

	Fact is, Paul(a)'s new found celebrity-hood became
so pronounced that at one juncture there, it got to the
point where a person couldn't even stand in a
supermarket checkout line and not see Paul(a)'s
femmifed monicker smiling back at them from some
magazine or another.  He - in his persona as a high
heeled pump transmogrified she - following in the steps
of Teri Gar, Art Donavn and Chris Elliott, even became
one of David Letterman's semi-regular re-occurring
guests.

	Janice and Paul were, in short shift of an
axiomatic order, rolling in dough.  They were going
places, meeting people and doing things that could only
dream of doing before.

	Best of all, due to the fact that Paul could
pretty much pick and choose when and where to become
the damn near universally recognizable glamorpuss
Gretchin Manborn, he and Janice revealed in the fact
that they could do so in damn near totally anonymity.
True, every now and again, Paul(a)'s anonymity was
severely threatened by the extreme measures and
audacious and affronting tactics employed by an over
zealous Paparazzi, but all in all, with some careful,
crafty, and at times, nefarious planning on their part,
Paul and his wife managed, through some very
complicated and convoluted means, to contend with the
simply insane and mind boggling amounts of unwarranted
popularity that his feminine persona had, over the long
haul, garnished for him.


* * *	


	There are several other related subjects that
should be addressed before leaving Paul and Janice
Meadows to enjoy the prosperity that the very novel use
of the magically infused, gender-bending spiked heels
has gained for them.

	For instance, the heels themselves had another,
secondary aspect that was quite remarkable and
therefore, noteworthy in and of itself.  For all
practical purposes, those high heeled pumps of
Paul(a)'s proved to be damn near indestructible.  They
didn't scuff.  They didn't mare.  Neither did they ever
once show signs of being subjected to any sort of water
or ware damage.

	Paul - as Paula... or Gretchin... or whatever -
could spend all day walking around on an abrasive
surface - such as concrete - and the soles of those
stiletto heeled pumps of his would still look as new as
the day that that spunky salesgirl had plucked them out
of the woman's boutique's display window and placed
them in their accompanying shoe-box.

	Also, though neither Paul nor Janice ever knew
exactly when the monumental event actually occurred,
some where along the line, the heel's magical
transsexualizing ability must have either transmigrated
or somehow - by some inexplicable means - duplicated
itself; infusing itself within the central cortex of
Paul's metaphysical, celestially tethered, ethereal
essence.

	One day, while vacationing in Tahiti, something
out of the ordinary occurred.  While he and Janice were
soaking up the rays pool-side, out of the corner of his
eye Paul - the male Paul - spied a young and rather
striking young woman out strutting her stuff, playing a
self-gratifying, ego stroking game of hey-guys-dig-the-
shit-out-of-little-old-gorgeous-your's-truly and for
some inexplicable reason, that got his goat.  Knowing
that Little Ms. Gyrations - as he sarcastically dubbed
her - couldn't begin to hold a candle to the way he
looked when femmed-out to the friggin max and deeply
regretting the fact the those transsexualizing heels of
his were safely stashed away in his suite's wall safe,
Paul made a wish, a wish he never - Ever! - thought
would come true and - Wallah! - he felt himself begin
to inexplicably change into his feminine alter ego as
the amply endowed, blonde haired, hip-swishing, crotch
creased, card carrying member in exemplary standing of
the Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice - No swinging
dicks allowed - Club.

	Aware, in a mind-boggling, mind-blowing sort of
way, that his lower extremities were once again well on
their way to assuming the shapely, male libido
troubling contours of an extremely attractive young
woman's, Paul, without a single, solitary word to his
wife to clue her in on what was transpiring, hastily
got up from the lounge chair he had been occupying and,
dashing, in a Chinese Fire Drill sort of frantic, feet-
don't-fail-me-now sort of way, beat feet across the
concrete deck and plunged - helter-skelter - head-long
into the pool, in an all out effort to use the vision
distorting prism effect of the pool's crystal clear
water to conceal the extraordinary changes that were in
the fluid and flawless process of being enacted on his
formerly male physiognomy.  Breaking into a water
churning and hopefully, scrutiny confounding crawl
stroke, Paul, who was well on his herifying way to
becoming Paula - a.k.a. Gretchin Manborn - made
straight off for the other side of the pool.  Reaching
it, he/she tucked into a well executed competitive
swimmer's flip-turn, aware that as he/she did so, his
lycra-spandex Speedo briefs had, in some miraculous
manner, transmogrified themselves into a pair of
skimpy, thonged, ass-crack channeled, extremely
revealing, French-cut bikini bottoms and a small sliver
of torso encircling material that was steadily sliding
- on its' own volition - upwards, across Paul(a)'s
marvelously trimming tummy.

	By the time Paul(a) churned and burned his way
back to the side of the pool he had initially and
frantically entered from, that sliver of torso
encircling material that had been creeping steadily and
fluidly upwards across that feminizing torso of his
swiftly herifying physique had become a brasserie
emulating, itsy-bitsy,  spaghetti-string suspended
bikini top, cupping those new, eye-riveting, areola
enhanced, generous, man-troubling chest protrusion of
his.  Knowing that his girlifaction would probably be a
done deal of a feat accompli by the time he completed
another two laps, Paul - who was well on his way to
becoming the super-model and mega celebrity Gretchin
Manborn - decided that a little augmentation wish was
what was needed to help him extricate his herifying
self from what might otherwise become a vacation
threatening situation.  Adopting a ploy that he had
used on numerous occasions in the past to foil the
intrusive and off times offensive efforts of the ever
tenacious Paparazzi, Paul(a) made a wish that would
make the young and deliciously attractive lady he would
- in sort order - become appear as if she had a healthy
does of Native American ancestry in her genes by
accentuation his cheek bones, giving his skin a
slightly reddish cast and ensuring that his femmified
hair would be a glistening and glossy black and as
straight and cureless as straight and cureless could
ever possible hope to be.

	Truth be told, Paul(a), with his wife's help, had
developed several different variations of the Gretchin
Meadows persona to be used on demand in order to
extricate his bodaciously herified self from such
sticky wickets as the one he had so inadvertently
landed his herified self in while vacationing on the
beautiful and balmy South Pacific island paradise of
Tahiti, when he went and made that silly and admittedly
catty little wish of his.  Paul - as Paula - could, via
a simply formatted augmentation wish, take on the
appearance of an Asian-American, an African-American or
Middle Eastern-American.  He could, should he desire to
do so, change that feminized hair of his to any color
or style of his choosing.  It could be long or short.
Curly, full-bodied or straight.  Likewise, he could
dicker around with his girlified complexion, changing
it form a rich and glossy ebony hue to a radiant and
translucent emulating alabaster on a simple whim of
his.  His nose could be skinny or splayed.  His eyes -
European or Asian.  His chin - sharp or rounded.  His
lips full pucker or dainty and delicate.

	However, no matter what cosmetic changes he - as a
she - selected for his herified self, one thing was
assured:  Paul - as a girl - was destine to be balls to
the walls beautiful and there wasn't a damn thing he
could do to muck that part of the heels' resident
magical sexual transmogrifying equation up.

	Whomever had infused those stiletto bad boys of
Paul(a)'s with the magical where-with-all to change a
man who donned them into a piece of feminine
topography, was adamant about one thing.  The resultant
man turned woman was going to be the epitome of what a
beautiful woman is supposed to be.  Case closed!  And
you can take that to the bank!

	So anyhow, getting back to what happened in
Tahiti, Janice, recognizing her husband as the gorgeous
black haired woman he had just then and there become,
and knowing - intuitively - that Paul(a)'s
transsexualization had been brought about sans the use
of the heels, was rendered just as dumb-struck and flat
out flabbergasted as her husband was.

	Minutes later, with the two of them securely
sequestered in their motel suite, Paul(a), femmed out
to the max as he - as a she - was, endeavored, in a
very bemused and perplexed way, to come to terms with
what that inadvertent, catty wish of his had
precipitated down at pool-side.

	Three explanation came to mind.

	One: the heels' transsexualizing magical where-
with-all could have - over time - migrated; going from
the heels themselves and, in some inexplicable manner,
found a knew place to call home in the ethereal essence
of Paul(a)'s metaphysical what-ever-you-want-to-call-
it.  Two: the heels resident magic - here again, over
time - make have calved, much as an iceberg or glacier
does, duplicating itself within the cortex of Paul(a)'s
intrinsic, spiritual being.  Or, three: the heels had
established what might be termed - were one to term it
- a metaphysical rapport with Paul(a), granting him the
ability to access their magical potential over what
might prove - once again over time - to be a fairly
considerable distance.

	Acting on Janice's suggestion, Paul(a), mentally
envisioning his herified self reaching down and
plucking a pair of non-existent heels form off of his
feet, formulated the wish that would - he dearly hoped
and ardently prayed - restore him to his birth
bequeathed manhood.

	Nothing happened.  Not a damn thing.  Paul(a)'s
body remain that of a full functional female.

	Cautioning each other against the omnipresent urge
to panic, suggesting that there was a very good chance
that the magic's residual girl-time codicil was still
in effect, the two of them bid their time with some
idle chit-chat revolving around the different things
they like to do during the remaining days of their
vacation.

	Sure enough, about ten or so minutes after Paul(a)
had formulated that high heel doffing, return to
manhood wish of his, his female to male retrofit kicked
into gear, proving out Paul(a)'s supposition about how
that residual girl-time codicil still held precedence,
irregardless of the means he had initially employed to
triggered his time spent as a  transient female.


* * *


	Paul(a)'s inherent ability to influence his
appearance as a femmed out female had its' own rather
nifty brand of unintended consequences.  Beside
affording him with the perfect ruse by which he could
easily frustrate, confound and there by, avoid the
abrasive efforts made by an over zealous Paparazzi,
Paul(a)'s ability to substantially change his femmified
appearance, also had a rather healthy monetary value
affixed to it.  Gretchin Manborn was only the first of
a whole bevy of super-models that Paul could and did -
at times - transsexualize himself into.

	In fact, Janice Meadows, via her husband's ability
to assume a whole plethora of different female
identities, became a fashion industry mogul.
Functioning as her husband's agent, Janice astounded
the modeling world by producing one world class super-
model after another; making the modeling agency she
soon established, the primer one for an up and coming
model, be that model male or female, to be under
contract with.

	And to think it all started with an off-handed
comment made by Paul - as a sarong garbed, high heel
shod, Tahitian-American appearing Paula - while the two
of them sat on their hotel's dinning veranda, casually
sipping away at some after-dinner, alcohol laced, tasty
Polynesian concoction, intent on gazing upon a most
spectacular, orange highlighted and purple hued sunset.

	"Jan..."

	"Yes, Paula..."

	"You know what we ought to do!  We ought to put
out another calendar!"

	"We should...", Janice response was mildly
incredulous.

	"Yes!  We most certainly should!"

	"How come?  I mean... you've already got two out!
The swimsuit one and the lingerie one!  Plus, you're
featured in a couple of others if my memory serves me
right..."

	"I mean... while there's no getting around the
fact that you're the hottest item to come down the pike
in a month of Sundays, Paula... don't you think that
another calendar featuring you and you alone might be
pushing a good thing?  Y'know, not to mention being as
egotistical as all get-out!"

	"True enough, Jan!  It would be pushing the
proverbial envelope a tad or two!  And, yes!  It would
be as egotistical as all get-out were this suggested
new calendar of mine only to feature Little Miss Your's
Truly!

	"However, Jan... what I had in mind was to for me
to substantial change my appearance - y'know, and there
by, assume a different female persona for each of the
twelve or thirteen month associated shots that the
calendar would be featuring and you and I could end up
pocketing a pretty penny in the process, ensuring that
we'd be able to keep on taking trips like this for
years and years to come..."

	And that's just what they did, starting their
project on very next day of that dream vacation of
theirs.  Using various Tahitian tourist sites they
visited as a backdrop, Paul(a), assuming the
distinctive features of beauties from around the world
and fitting his herified self out with skimpy and
alluring swim-wear, posed for pictures that Janice, who
was  - it should be noted - a fine, commercial grade
photographer in her own right, snapped one roll of film
after another.  Then, upon returning to the states,
Janice, with lab-quality processed photos in hand,
marketed the proposed calender.


* * *


	Another unintended consequence came when Paul - as
the glamorpuss Gretchin Manborn - appeared in the pages
of PLAYBOY.

	After a rather extensive and exploratory courting
period, Janice, acting as her husband's agent, signed
the agreement that sealed the deal.  Paul - as Gretchin
- was to be feature not only on the cover and in an
expanded version of the centerfold section, but was
also to the subject of the Playboy Interview feature
piece.

	Although Paul wasn't all that comfortable with
posing in the nude initially, the more he thought about
it, the more he realized how hypocritical it would be
if he didn't pose all natural.  'After all,', he
sternly and repeatedly reminded himself, 'what's good
for the gander is good goose!  And since you now have
the ability to log time as that proverbial long and
lovely legged goose of your's... old pal... old
buddy... old friend - mixing a whole shitload of
metaphors here - it's time to pay the piper and belly
up to the bar... so to speak...'

	Then, to tout the forthcoming release of the
PLAYBOY featuring her ultra femmified husband, Janice
Meadows sought and received permission from Playboy
Enterprises for Paul - as the super-model and mega
celebrity Gretchin Manborn - to make an appearance on
the Letterman Show, flamboyantly decked out in full
Bunny regalia.


* * *


	As might be expected, stiletto heeled, pointy toed
opera pumps became Gretchin Manborns' trademark,
sparking, within a month or two of Paul(a)'s meteoric
rise to celebrity-hood, yet another huge and
unparalleled resurgence in the popularity of that
particular style of woman's foot apparel.  Shoe stores
found themselves unable to keep up with the demands for
them.  Podiatrist on the other hand, while publicly
decrying the resurgence of the classic, spiked heeled
pump, gleefully, albeit surreptitiously, speculated on
how much added revenue they would realize as an
unintended consequences of women wearing them over
something a little less potentially detrimental to
proper foot care.


* * *



	Now, for those of you who are wondering whether or
not Janice ever got passed those aversions of hers
towards being a willing participant in sexual
activities of a decidedly lesbian nature, much to her
husband's chagrin, the short answer is: no.  She has
not.

	However, though Paul remains totally ignorant of
his wife's ongoing endeavors, Janice has been, at every
opportunity presented to her, aggressively trying to
get beyond those rather staunchly held aversions of
her's via the process of what she has come to term -
creative day dreaming, in which she trys her darndest
to fashion fantasies in which she is sexually getting
it on with Paul in his twenty-something Paula motif.

	Granted, the chance of her succeeding with those
endeavors of her's fall somewhere in between slim and
none, but Janice remains hopeful that someday she might
be able to see her way clear to being able to go down
on Paul - as Paula - and give him the tongue lashing he
- as a she - so rightfully deserves and so ardently
desires.


THE END
(For now)