Heels

HEELS

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)