By Guest Writer: Mike
Chapter 10 – Part 2 of 2
Cynthia exited the car and I followed behind her. The parking lot was only about half full but that still meant there were far too many people around to see the makeup on my face. Cynthia turned to remind me to grab my purse but it was already draped over my shoulder. She smiled, seeing it. She stopped walking and fished the Wererock out of her pocket. “Grab my hand.”
“Yes, mistress,” I said, unaware of the words spilling out of my mouth until after I heard them.
Cynthia smiled, gripped my hand with the stone between us, and filled out my bra. “That’s it. That’s the only thing the stone is giving you. Except for your breasts, I’m going to make you my special girl without using magic or whatever this thing does.” She looked at me and reconsidered. “No, one more thing.” With that she made my hair longer. It hung, long and thick, to about the middle of my back. “I don’t want you in a wig and your own hair would have grown out in time. I’ve only accelerated that.” She gave me a final look. “Perfect. Let’s go.”
“Oh, I love that.” She draped her arm in mine. “You know,” she said, toying with me, “You’re not going to be coming very much. Oh, I won’t deny you forever, but, I wonder, what do you think about records?”
The thing I’d learned as a kid playing youth sports came to mind and those ten truthful minutes hadn’t quite elapsed, “Records are meant to be broken.”
She led me into the mall. The hair on my head felt foreign and heavy but it was long enough that it hid most of my face. I was thankful for the subdued color on my face, eyes and lips and even more grateful for the new, longer hair. It was foreign; I’d never worn it that long, but it doubled as a mask and that help. Still, with my breasts bouncing, the purse on my arms, and the makeup on my face, my face flared from a fresh bout of shame. I was sure that most of the color on my cheeks came from the humiliation I was feeling and not the rouge I’d painted there before leaving Cynthia’s house.
Cynthia guided me to the first shop. I stood by Cynthia’s side as she perused a rack of skirts. Most were of a singular color – blue or black or green or gray. A few were multicolored, some had stripes or some geometric pattern but most were the same uniform color. She held one up to my hips to check the length. “We need to get you some work clothes.”
“I haven’t got the job yet.”
Even I could read her smile.
A woman wearing a peach colored blouse and a torn denim skirt approached us. Her blond hair was streaked with lines of brown. She was maybe two years older than I was, or two years younger. I couldn’t exactly tell. She approached Cynthia and I, but her eyes never left me. “Can I help you ladies?” Was she mocking me or did I look like a woman in a man’s suit? My hair was made up, my breasts were full and heavy, my hair draped down long enough to cover most of my chest and the purse on my arm looked like it belonged. I think I looked more like a woman than a man. I didn’t know what to think of that.
Cynthia explained what we were looking for.
“Great. I’ll set her up in a changing booth. I’m Rhonda, and you are?” She held her hand to mine.
I took it, “Amy,” I said, trying to raise my voice. I’m not sure I succeeded; Rhonda gave me a strange look that I couldn’t define.
“Let’s get you set up.”
Cynthia followed, carrying a few skirts with her. Rhonda led us to the back of the store, telling us all about their big sale. I got the impression that she worked on commission. If so, with what Cynthia was planning, Rhonda was in luck.
At the back of the store, Rhonda opened a small crimson curtain. Beyond the partition were four small dressing rooms, each sealed by another dark red drape. She put me in the first room to the left. Each of the three hard walls held a full-length mirror. A bench filled the space opposite the curtain. I spotted a discarded button and four push pins lying on the wooden bench. Cynthia handed me the pile of skirts she selected, telling me to try them on while she went and looked for blouses.
Rhonda had disappeared, leaving me alone in a room full of mirrors. Except for my clothing, I didn’t look like a man. My breasts bulged from my chest, standing firm and proud. My brown hair draped to the middle of my back and swayed with each turn of my head. My gentle makeup still looked flawless, giving me a softer look than I normally had. It was uncanny how much I looked like a woman despite what I was wearing.
I stripped to my bra and panties. The illusion was nearly perfect. With the makeup and the breasts, the lingerie and the hair I was a girl. Cynthia’s girl. Haven’t I already said we believe what we see? What I saw left me feeling confused and a little bit sad. It felt like I was losing one identity only to gain one that I had never expected. Was this what I wanted? I didn’t have an answer to that but I felt committed, like I didn’t really have a choice. Was that because of what I wanted, but couldn’t voice, or because of Cynthia or was it because of the rock safely hidden in Cynthia’s jeans? More questions came, but unfortunately, I didn’t have any answers. With no idea what else to do, I just kept moving, like a river, just going where the current led.
I picked up the first skirt. It was a simple red skirt, long enough to reach the top of my knees. I shimmied into it, slipping it over my ass. It was a little tight in the waist but the stone could take care of that. No, Cynthia had said that from here on it was all us, no magic at all. Maybe I needed a larger size.
I tried on four more skirts and they all fit about the same. A big snug in the waist, a bit loose at the hips. It was because I was a man, build differently than a woman. Simple biology; men and women were different.
Cynthia came in. “That looks good,” she said. The skirt was dark blue, with thin, silver pinstripes. “Try this blouse,” she said. The blouse was white, with buttons up the front and a thin, pointy collar. I buttoned the shirt, and tucked it into the blouse. I gathered my hair and draped it over my right shoulder. Staring back at me was a professional business woman. I could just make out my bra underneath the blouse and when I commented on it Cynthia just grinned. “My girl is both professional and sexy.”
I tried on the rest of the blouses. The only one we didn’t select was a white, nearly transparent shirt with darker pieces of fabric at the nipples. It was far too slutty for the work attire Cynthia was after.
Cynthia had me dress in a red skirt that ended above the knee and a black blouse that was cut a little low. My cleavage was spilling out of the blouse and when I turned, I could see my breasts wobble like cold jello. Looking back at me in the mirror was a pretty girl with large breasts, ample cleavage, and a blushing face. My hair was a little ratty, and maybe a bit long, but other than that I looked pretty good. Cynthia took my suit, leaving me in the dressing room dressed like that lawyer Ally McBeal from that old TV show.
Rhonda and Cynthia came back with a few dresses next, all of them professional and just a tad sexy. They were cut low or cut short, some with long sleeves and some with no sleeves at all. I tried them all and selected the ones Cynthia wanted me to buy. We ended up spending about fifteen hundred dollars on my business attire. I wasn’t sure if it was a good deal or not but Cynthia assured me that it was. She would know; she had way more experience being a girl than I did. It was all new to me.
Cynthia had me wear a simple black and white striped dress out of the store. After that the rest of the mall didn’t seem so embarrassing. Now we were two girlfriends shopping and having fun. We went shoe shopping and got me some more heels to go with my new clothes. I wore a pair of black shoes with a three-inch heel out of the shoe store. My men’s shoes disappeared. I later learn that my suit and shoes went into the trash. “My girl didn’t need those icky things,” Cynthia had joked. Somehow, seeing her smile, erased whatever anger I should have felt.
We kept shopping, buying blouses and skirts and dresses. Cynthia steered me away from pants and jeans, saying I needed to get used to being a girl before I could wear anything with legs. It was her show; I let her run it.
Cynthia squealed, grabbed my arm, and yanked me into a jewelry store. “You need your ears pierced!”
The store was small and cluttered with mirrored walls and brightly lit display cases making the room seem far brighter than it was. Small carousels housing dozens of earrings sat on the display cases. There were studs and hoops, danglers and even huge disc shaped earrings used by people who had quarter-sized holes in their ears. I never knew there were so many styles. Other display cases housed necklaces and bracelets and still more held rings and toe rings. Jewelry was made of gold and silver, platinum and titanium. The sheer volume was overwhelming.
Cynthia pulled me to the back of the store where a sign reading:
Free piercing with the purchase of any two pairs of earrings.
Buy one pair / Get one half off!!!
“Hi.” A pretty, black girl with far too much makeup on her face, wearing jet black fingernail polish, greeted Cynthia and I as we approached her counter. “Can I… wow, how old are you?”
Was she talking to me? “Huh?”
“Sorry.” She looked at my ears, moving her head from side to side. Her dark eyes were wide with something akin to shock. “I’ve just never seen a woman as old as you without her ears pierced.” She grinned, showing impossibly white teeth, “were you a nun?”
She called me a woman without missing a beat; is that what I looked like? “No,” I said, smiling with her, “I’m not a nun.” I scrambled and found an excuse. “I’m just terrified of needles.”
“Oh,” she said, “We don’t use needles anymore. That’s old school.” I found that funny; the girl couldn’t have been more than twenty. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”
I deferred to Cynthia. Cynthia picked out a simple pair of diamond studs. They were expensive, probably the costliest pair in the store. Truthfully, I had enough money to retire even if I was far too young to do so, the cost didn’t really matter. She chose another pair of golden earrings that hung down about three inches. I thought they were too long but Cynthia poo-pooed my complaint.
I paid for the earrings with my debit card. I saw my name embossed on the plastic. I’d have to do something about that. Maybe I could add my sister Amy to my checking account. Not that I had a sister but still, something needed to be done. If I was going to go to work as Amy, I’d need to get supporting documentation. I wasn’t sure how I’d overcome that obstacle.
The woman had me sit on an uncomfortable wooden stool. I hooked my heels into the bottom rung of the stool, my toes pointing down. I folded my hands together and hung my head, waiting for the sting to come. Cynthia was looking at other pieces of cheap jewelry while the black girl gathered her supplies. I sat there trying to come to grip with the idea of piercing my ears. How would I hide that when I went to work on Monday?
“You won’t,” Cynthia said.
Was she reading my mind. “What?”
“You won’t be able to hide it.” She laughed at the expression on my face. “It’s obvious what you were thinking. You look so pale.” She kissed the top of my head, “Don’t worry about it. Monday will come and go and you won’t even think about it.” She kissed me again, “I promise.”
The employee came up to me. She cleaned my earlobes with some alcohol drenched cotton balls. My ears felt cold when she put the cotton away. She picked up the first of my diamond earring and placed it into a small crevice inside a silver piercing gun. The device had a squeezable trigger that would push the post of my earring though my ear, turning my earring into the needle. “This’ll sting a bit,” she said, her voice soothing, “but little babies do this. You’ll be fine.”
She held the post of my earring against my ear, capturing my lobe between the post and another piece of plastic. She squeezed the handle, I felt the pinch, a sting, and heard a slight popping sound. Just like that I had an earring in my ear. She repeated the process on the other side. Afterwards, she wiped my ears with a cold cotton ball doused in some soothing antiseptic gel. It felt cold and wet and the stinging went away. She handed me my posts and, fumbling, I put them in place.
Cynthia eyed my ears and flashed me a smile. She looked pleased.
I had two new holes in my ears. This wasn’t done because of the Wererock; this was done by me. Just like when I had shaved my chest, this was something done not with magic, but mechanically. I knew the Wererock could mend the holes but that wasn’t going to happen. That wasn’t part of the plan.
The plan scared the shit out of me.
We left the store and kept shopping. We bought some new panties and bras for both of us. It was way more fun shopping for lingerie with Cynthia. I would sneak into the changing room with her and we’d take turns groping each other, kissing, and caressing. We’d make sure we straightened our clothing before venturing out into the stores but no matter what, we still seemed slightly disheveled. We bought tap pants and camisoles, garter belts and stockings, panties of every style and color, and even a long gown for me to sleep in at night. The day found me spending more money that I ever expected to spend.
We made a second trip to the car and then a third with even more purchase. Back in the mall Cynthia led me to a simple salon. “We need to do something about your hair.” Once again, I deferred to Cynthia. She spoke to a large woman with tattoos on her face and arms. She had a small lock looped through her ears, a far more sinister look than the diamonds I wore in mine. When she spoke, her voice was totally unexpected; it was sweet and soft, almost melodic. “Hi, I’m Kaitlyn. How can I help you?”
“Amy needs to do something with her hair.” It was weird hearing Cynthia call me Amy or maybe I just wasn’t used to hearing it. Much like the heels and the purse it was something I would have to get used to.
Kaitlyn looked at me and lifted my hair, feeling it’s weight. “You have beautiful hair,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said, still using that slightly higher voice. What could I tell her. I just got it?
Cynthia flipped through a book of styles and chose one that she liked. It started out long in the front and then got shorter as it went to the back. It left me with bangs and a length just below my shoulders, with my hair having a faint, lazy wave. “That’ll look great,” Kaitlyn declared, “And it’s easy to take care of.”
Twenty minutes later my hair was cut and styled. Thirty minutes after that I had a few lighter highlights mixed in with my normal dark brown shade. Looking in the mirror I looked even prettier than before; there was barely a hint of the old me. Save for the lump at my throat I looked like a woman. I wondered if Cynthia wanted to take that bump away.
After dinner, we drove back to my place. Cynthia helped me unload my purchases and put everything away. She had me empty my closet of all my male clothing, carrying my suits and jackets, slacks and ties, shoes and socks to a spare bedroom. “My girl,” she decreed, “will not have any men’s clothes in her closet.”
“Yes, mistress,” I said, though because I wanted to or because of the lingering power of the Wererock I could not say.
When we were done, my closet held all my skirts and dresses and blouses and heels. My dresser was full of panties and stockings, bras and camisoles. Did most women own this much underwear? My furniture was still mostly utilitarian and maybe a bit masculine, but the clothes in the drawers and hanging in the closet screamed femininity. There was no hiding what I was becoming. I tried to decide how I got there and couldn’t. It was like I was an astronaut in a rocket being launched into space. Once the engine lit I was along for the ride and nothing could stop the ship from reaching orbit. I couldn’t even seem to decide if I wanted to stop. It was all so confusing. I’d never even sniffed a pair of panties and now I was wearing them. Have you ever looked back at your life and wondered how you got to where you are? That’s what was happening to me and I didn’t have an answer. Even the questions I asked seemed irrelevant. What did it matter what I did as long as Cynthia was there to lead the show? Had I been that lonely, causing me to latch onto Cynthia, consequences be damned, or was she just tapping into some part of me that I didn’t know was there? Or were we both just toys to whatever lived inside that powerful rock?
Cynthia undressed me and helped me undress her. We settled, naked, onto my bed. I caressed her body and she caressed mine. She grew damp; I grew hard. She guided me into her, arching her back to accept me even deeper. I thrust into her, she matched my pace. We were a well-oiled machine that was broken. No matter how long I went, and how long I wanted to go, I couldn’t come. Cynthia called out, “fuck me. Fuck me, Amy,” and I did, pounding into her with a raging intensity that couldn’t be sated. I fueled our lust, until finally, frustrated and horny, I had to stop.
Cynthia caressed her pussy, rubbing her clit in front of me. My cock bounced and bobbed. My nipples were every bit as hard as Cynthia’s. “Oh,” she cried, “I want to come.”
“Me too.” I said, panting.
“Not for a week.” She stopped stroking her clit. “At least.”
I rolled onto my side, my cock stroking her thigh. “Can I know the game now?”
She smiled, bit her lip, and shook her head. “Nope.”
I pouted. I actually pouted. “That’s not fair.”
That made her laugh. “I love you.” A shocked look filled her pretty face. Then her smile returned, “I didn’t mean to say that, I didn’t, but it’s true.” She glanced at her pants sitting on the floor at the foot of my bed. “It’s too soon, I know it’s too soon, but,” her eyes looked away from the floor and back into my face. She gave an innocent shrug, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”