HEELS

By: Deane Christopher

Copyrighted: 1999

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

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

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

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


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


HEELS


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

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

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

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

	And that troubled the livin' shit out of him.

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

	Was Paul Meadows a compulsive buyer?

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

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

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

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

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

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


* * *


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	And try it on is exactly what Paul Meadows did.

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

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

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

	"This is crazy!  Absolutely crazy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	And revert it did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	The answer: a definitive and resounding yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	"Shit!

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

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

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

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

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

	'Now, I wonder why that was...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	One minute...

	Two minutes...

	Three.

	Then four.

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

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

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

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

	One minute came and went.

	Then two.

	Then three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	"And that's only the half of it!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	Seeing was one thing.  Believing - quite another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	"Would you just look at me!

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

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

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

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

	"Simply gorgeous...

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

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

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

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

	"Now that's rather nifty..."

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

	"This is fantastic!  Simply fantastic!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	"Now would you look at that!

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

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

	Paranoia was setting in, demanding another time
check.

	Four minutes.  Paul had but one minute to go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	And he did just that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	"Shit!", he dejectedly muttered.

	"Shit!  Shit!  Shit!  Shit!  Shit!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	"That's point one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	They did indeed at that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	Though Paul had originally planned to remain awake
until he got his manhood back, his orgasmic experiences
as a full fledged member of the opposite sex had so
tuckered him out that he allowed the extremely
pleasurable, multi-faceted, cuddly feeling, warm fuzzes
of post-orgasmic contemplation to gen