By Guest Writer: Mike
Chapter 5 – Part 2
Cynthia giggled before giving me a kiss. “You found me.”
“I’m glad I did,” I said, both of us knowing I meant more than catching up with her following my trip to her car.
Cynthia led me to the back of the store and sealed me inside a dressing room. “Get out of those icky clothes. We have to get you something fun. Something flirty.”
If I thought I looked out of place as a man with tits, strutting through the mall, how silly would I look in short dress or a tiny, plaid school-girl skirt? I thought of snaking my hand into Cynthia’s panties to give myself a more feminine look but this was her show and she was obviously having fun. I hadn’t seen her smile fade since before we left for the mall. I wasn’t about to rob Cynthia of her fun. I took off my sneakers, snipped out of my t-shirt and jeans, and stood there in the dressing room wearing a bright yellow bra that was too small and Cynthia’s red panties that were far too tight. I suddenly wished for my new bra and panties, in awe of that foreign thought.
Cynthia entered the changing room carrying an armful of clothes. “Don’t worry about the fit,” she said, “we can always adjust you if need be.” She rubbed my boobs through my bra. “Well, not all of you.” She let out another giggle and gave me a kiss on the nose.
Cynthia sat on the little booth littered with tiny needles and torn off tags. She handed me the first outfit. “All girls need a little black dress,” she said with certainty.
The dress lived up to its name. It was little and black. I stepped into it and then shimmied it higher, wagging my hips as I pulled it over Cynthia’s panties and my breasts. The dress was short; my fingers touched my hairy thighs with the straps resting on my shoulders. My tits pushed outward, revealing a huge expanse of cleavage. It was tight at the waist and even tighter in the chest. I admired myself in the mirror as I posed as Cynthia directed. “That looks good on you,” she said. “We’ll have to do something about that hair. I guess we’ll have to stop and get you waxed.”
“Um, no thanks.” That didn’t sound pleasant.
She flashed me a devilish smile, “I wasn’t asking a question, silly.” We both knew the stone could do it, but that wasn’t what Cynthia wanted.
I tried on short skirts and even shorter ones. I tried on tight blouses and blouses that tied in place just below my ample breasts. Cynthia commented on most of them and went back to exchange two separate outfits for ones that were just a little bit tighter. Every outfit she chose was either sexy or slutty or both. Of course, that was what this store sold. We left the store with two more bags of clothes.
I had felt comfortable when hiding inside the dressing room. Now, out in the concourse, I once again felt far too many eyes upon me and heard far too many snickers and giggles. I wanted to run; I wanted to escape the stares and the taunts and the countless camera flashes. I felt exposed and scared. Cynthia squeezed my arm and that gave me strength but I still found myself gazing at my feet more than the faces of those who were staring back.
I followed Cynthia from one store to the next. In some she would have me try on clothes in others she would hold dresses up to my body in full view of other shoppers. Once she asked a passing teenager what she thought of a dress she was holding against my chest. The dress was short and silver and sparkly.
“It’ll look good on her,” the girl replied, laughing at the flush on my cheeks. “Sorry, him.”
We bought the silver dress.
Cynthia picked out jeans and t-shirts from the women’s department from Macy’s, making sure I tried them on. The pants were tight and looking at my crotch while wearing them left no doubt that I wasn’t packing a cock inside those jeans. She picked out casual clothes and sexy clothes; clothes suitable for the office and clothes suitable only for the bedroom floor. Cynthia picked out skirts and dresses; she selected camisoles and nightgowns for me to sleep in. By the end of the day I’d spent well over two thousand dollars and had half a closet full of new clothes from slutty to demure and everywhere in between.
“That’s a good start,” Cynthia declared as we returned another load of bags to the car. “Let’s get dinner and then we’ll have some real fun.”
“Oh?” My voice rose, thinking of Cynthia in my bed.
“You need heels!”
“Oh.” My voice fell.
Cynthia only laughed.
We had dinner at Chili’s. We sat side by side on the same side of the booth; I took comfort in her touch. Somehow, with Cynthia beside me, the laughter didn’t sting quite as bad. Cynthia told me she was proud of how well I was holding up. She even praised me for how well I took the subdued laughter of our waitress when she took our order.
“It was hard at first,” I admitted. “All those people pointing and laughing. I heard all sorts of derogatory comments.”
“I heard them, too.”
“Yeah, but after a while it got easier. I think because you were with me. Or maybe I was just going numb to it.”
During our meal, I would drop my hand and rub Cynthia’s thigh and other, warmer places. She would part her legs and give me access. Once I was certain I felt the hard bite of the Wererock. Other times she would return the favor, sliding her fingers across my crotch. Her touch was electric and by the end of our meal, my panties were damp. I’m pretty sure hers were, too.
We left Chili’s and walked across the parking lot and back into the mall. There was a lot fewer shoppers now and for that I was thankful. Cynthia pulled me into a high-end shoe store, brightly lit and filled with all sorts of heels, sandals, and flats. I felt the color return to my cheeks when an employee, an elderly woman, probably close to sixty, approached us and made some snide comment about perverts and how they “should get their jolly’s elsewhere.”
Cynthia told her to fuck off and pulled me from the store. The second shoe store we entered was just as well-lit and just as well-stocked but the younger woman that helped us, I’d guess she was in college but just barely, seemed more fascinated than repulsed by my obvious tits. “Are they real?” She asked.
“My brother had that. Gynecomastia. He wasn’t as open about it. Good for you. I’m Mary and if you need any help, just ask.”
I’d never heard that term before. I thanked her but Cynthia spoke up before I could send her away. “Thank you, Mary. We could use some help. We’ve been building Amy’s wardrobe and she needs some heels. We bought this perfect little black dress…”
“… and you need the perfect shoes. I know what that’s like.” Mary regarded me, “What size shoe do you wear, Amy?” She didn’t even laugh at the name Cynthia had given me. When I asked her about it later, she had laughed and said it had simply come out. She had thought of Amy Adams, the actress, and since my name was Adam, Amy just seemed to fit. “It made sense at the time.” Her laughter had been contagious. In the shoe store, however, I felt another piece of my masculinity slipping away. It had been fun, it was still fun, but with Cynthia renaming me it suddenly began to feel a little too permanent. We’d joked about being stuck in whatever form we were in when the Wererock got lost. This felt a little too close to being forever. I took a seat on a wooden bench with sloped mirrors on each end.
Cynthia sat next to me, “Are you okay?”
How could I answer that? I was a caricature of a man and a mockery of a woman and Cynthia seemed to be robbing me of everything that made me a man in one fun evening. And it was fun. Humiliating but fun. I was just feeling overwhelmed or maybe I was feeling ashamed and scared and nervous and excited all at once and it was simply too much. The store seemed too hot; the lights too bright. I tried to come up with a way to tell her what I was feeling. The look on her face, one of genuine concern, seemed to make it all better. Like ice cream when you were a kid and suffering from a scraped knee. “I’m okay,” I said. I glanced at Mary and gave her a nod. I turned back to Cynthia, “I’ll explain later.”
“Do you want to go home?” She stared at me, taking in everything. I think if she had seen anything that bothered her we’d have left on the spot. I felt my affection for her rise in an instant.
“Don’t I need shoes?”
Mary piped up, “And a matching purse!” She’d been oblivious to the quiet, intimate moment Cynthia and I had shared.
Cynthia regarded me a moment longer. The worry on her face faded, to be replaced by a smile, “Yes,” she agreed, “And a matching purse.”
Mary had me remove my socks before she measured my foot. I had to wear this ugly, brown, nylon half-sock to try on the heels. I tried on half a dozen shoes before I found a pair that seemed to fit. We could have made an adjustment to my feet but somehow Cynthia seemed to be having fun making me try on shoes with my huge, hairy man-feet. The heels that fit were black with a single, thin strap that wrapped over the top of my foot. It had a blocky heel about the size of a nine-volt battery. The shoes elevated my heels about four inches and as I wobbled in them, trying to find my footing, I found myself hanging on to the elevated display stand piled high with shoes.
“You’ll get used to them,” Cynthia promised. “With practice. With lots of practice.” She emphasized the word lots. She snuck up behind me and whispered in my ear, “What if I made you wear them to work?”
The thought set my nerves on fire. My knees slammed together at the thought in an effort to quell the erotic desire that seemed to race through me like an electromagnetic pulse. I tried to imagine hiding in my office, those shoes on my feet, trying to keep them hidden from the programmers or Carley and her inquisitive nature. The idea was terrifying and exciting and I wanted to both try it and run away screaming from the idea. It wasn’t any different than what the Wererock could do but somehow it was more intense because it would be voluntary.
“I’d just take them off,” I said, smiling my defiance.
I surprised myself with my next word. “Promise?”
Cynthia gave me a look that would have made my cock hard, instead it made my pussy throb. Her blue eyes were shining with the same need I was feeling. Her eyes spoke volumes; they showed her desire and her power and in her gaze I could tell she was feeling the same things I was. With each passing second it seemed we were growing more and more connected.
Mary giggled. “Oh, I’d love to hear how that goes.”
Cynthia kept her eyes locked on mine, “Amy will tell you all about it; I’ll make sure of it.” With that, Cynthia seemed to take control of me just a little bit more. Or maybe I gave her that control. The results were the same.
We bought the shoes and a pair of women’s tennis shoes as well. “A girl’s got to stay in shape,” Cynthia stated when I finally found a pair that fit. While shopping for the shoes I’d received a few more nasty comments from other shoppers but with Cynthia and Mary surrounding me I could tune it out. It would be different if I was alone, but the two women with me somehow gave me the strength I needed to endure the criticism and the barbs thrown my way.
As promised, after selecting the two pairs of shoes, Cynthia had me pick out my very first purse. There was a single wall of purses and four additional tables adorned with handbags and clutches, purses that went over an arm and even one that looked like a small back pack. I didn’t know one style from any other so I went with a simple black purse with a golden button on the top to latch it shut. It had a detachable strap so that I could wear it over my shoulder or carry it in my hand. I thought it was versatile and the singular color meant it would match most everything I’d bought that day. Cynthia told me it was a good choice. What she said next scared me and sent another jolt to my crotch, “A woman never leaves home without her purse.” Her meaning was clear. How would I hide that?
Mary rang us up and told me that I was brave. I thanked her even though I was there because of Cynthia and the Werestone and not on my own. I’d never even thought of buying heels or shoes before that magical stone and even more magical woman came into my life.
Cynthia drove back to my house where we hung up my clothes, set my shoes in the closet underneath my new dresses, skirts and blouses. Afterwards, sitting on my couch with the television playing one of those digital music channels, we were like two teen-agers. We started kissing and that escalated to groping and that was elevated again when Cynthia pushed my head lower. I reached under her skirt and slipped her panties off. They were black today and they were every bit as damp as my own. My hands slid along her smooth legs and when I pushed her thighs apart, Cynthia responded by scooting lower on the couch, giving me the access I needed.
My mouth kissed a path from her stocking clad calf, past her knees, to the top of her thighs where her stockings ended and then higher still. I used my mouth and my fingers in place of the cock and when the Wererock fell into my hand I found it was not only cold but now it was wet as well. I couldn’t make a change as I was still wearing that silver necklace so I simply set the stone on the coffee table behind me and continued the gentle, exploratory swipes with my tongue.
Cynthia responded with an excited gasp. I kissed and licked, nibbled and probed. Cynthia grabbed my hair and forced my mouth against her wet sex. I parted the wet flesh and dove in. I sucked her clit into my mouth and her hips lurched in response. Her pleasure rose and with it, I felt my own body responding. My nipples were hard nubs, my panties were flooded. Cynthia came against my mouth, gasping and cooing. I felt a mix of pride and desire, knowing the pleasure I’d brought that beautiful woman.
Cynthia pulled me up and kissed me. I could taste her on my lips and was certain she could taste herself. I found that thought even more arousing and I felt another lurch in my own, wet panties.
“I’ve got to go,” Cynthia stated. “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about you.” I don’t know if she was going to say that anyway or if she was just commenting on the forlorn look on my face. She smiled at me and kissed me again and that made it okay. I was horny; my panties were as humid as the jungle. My clit was buzzing, begging to be touched. Cynthia had told me not to touch myself; was this part of that game? Is that why she hadn’t done to me what I had enjoyed doing to her? Ultimately, it was her show and I decided to let her run it.
I sat next to Cynthia as she took off the necklace. She reached over for the stone. “I want to test something,” she said. She grabbed my hand in hers with the Wererock between us. She shut her eyes only to open them a moment later. I watched as she put the rock down and helped me don the necklace again.
“I’m sure nothing will happen,” she stated, “I’ll be by in the morning to take these away,” with that she reached around to hoist my mammoth breasts into the air. I could tell in an instant that she had made them quite a bit more sensitive. “I did set a trigger that as soon as it became six a.m. that you’d revert to your normal male self,” Cynthia explained, “but I’m pretty sure the silver necklace will stop that from happening. That’s what I’m testing.” Even though she was sitting behind me, caressing my tits and tweaking my nipples, I could tell she smiled, “I could have set the time to midnight, but where is the fun in that?” She kissed my neck and that caused me to rub my thighs together. I was feeling this burning need in my pussy; I was horny and that need seemed to be growing. If I didn’t do anything about it soon I would likely go mad.
Cynthia stood up and had me take her to the door. She was holding the Wererock, not bother to tuck it away. I think she wanted me to watch her take it. I could almost hear my panties making a strange squishing sound as I walked. I was horny, dammit. Cynthia kissed me and I felt my body tense with a rising, burning need. I was starting to feel desperate.
Cynthia grinned. “You can touch yourself all you want tonight.” Music to my ears.
I escorted Cynthia to her car and kissed her one last time. She smiled, waved, and promised she would be over in the morning. “Have fun tonight.” She tilted her head, “I’m going to turn my ringer off.” I didn’t understand why she said that until twenty minutes later. “Good night.”
“Good night, honey,” I said. I didn’t plan on the endearment, it just slipped out, but I was glad I said it anyway. “Sleep well.”
“Oh,” her grin got bigger, “I will.”
I watched her drive away. I raced into my house, locked the doors and set my alarm. I was naked before I reached my bedroom. I lay in bed, my knees splayed, and began rubbing my damp pussy. I stroked the flesh; I rubbed my impossibly hard clit, and I drove myself to the brink of that desperately needed orgasm. I stroked, and twisted, rubbed and caressed but I couldn’t bring myself over that knifes-edge of pleasure. “No,” I moaned, kicking my legs. “I need this,” I cried into my cold room. I rubbed my nipples, feeling that touch in both my tits and my needy sex. I was desperate, horny, needy, but denied. “No,” I cried again, my hand still feverishly rubbing my crotch.
Earlier in the day, right before I had donned my bra for Cynthia, she had done something to me with the Wererock. Now I knew what she had done. Somehow, she had taken away my ability to have an orgasm. Why? I cried out in frustration and tried to overcome the power of the Werestone. Nothing I did helped. I stroked my pussy, I slammed two and then three fingers into myself, trying to send myself over the abyss of pleasure. I twisted my nipples until they screamed in agony and that pain did nothing but fuel the insatiable need between my legs.
I pounded my mattress in frustration. Why had Cynthia done this? Why? I thought of calling her but remembered her telling me she would be turning her ringer off. This was her plan. She wanted me to feel this way. I didn’t know why. I couldn’t even fathom a good reason for her to do that to me, but knowing it was what she wanted seemed to drive my need higher and make it manageable at the same time.
I spent another hour trying to defy the Wererock. Nothing I did helped. Every stroke and swipe, every pinch and caress did nothing but drive my horny desperation even higher. It felt like I would go crazy if I couldn’t come and yet each thing I tried, each thing I shoved up inside me, from the end of a spatula to the silver roll that held my toilet paper, did nothing but make me even more desperate. I was tense and horny and filled with sexual frustration. It made my eyes tear up.
A cold shower helped. For about ten minutes and then I’d find my sly fingers touching myself again, trying to find that one magic touch, that one powerful thrust of whatever I could find to send me over the edge so that I could finally have that needed orgasm.
Another cold shower and a third after that finally calmed me enough so that I could lie in bed, my legs spread wide, with my fingers curled into tight fists, and not touch myself. Oh, I wanted to. Desperately. But I knew my orgasm was denied. I didn’t know why Cynthia did that to me and with her ringer off I couldn’t ask her until the morning. Still, it was what she wanted and until she came back with the Wererock there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
I shut my eyes and fought my body. My pussy begged me to play. My nipples demanded attention but nothing I could do would help. Every caress would do nothing than escalate that crying hunger that couldn’t be sated. I fell asleep a quivering mass of need, desperate to come and unable to do so.
Exactly as Cynthia had wanted.