The Wererock - Chapter 8 – Part 2 of 2

The Wererock

By Guest Writer:  Mike

Chapter 8 – Part 2 of 2

Suddenly I became a little worried. Or maybe I simple became nervous. I had thought that this would end as soon as I saw Cynthia. I had been counting down the hours, even planning on skipping out of work a half hour earlier. Now, it seemed, that my time with the purse wasn’t quite as near to the end as I thought. Cynthia had something up her sleeves. I typed in the question she wanted to read: What do I have to do?

                What’s in your purse?

                Nothing.

                Exactly. A girl doesn’t carry her purse just because it looks good. There should be some things inside your purse. The things that every girl should carry. Once you have the five items I think should be in there, well, then you can take off your heels or set down the purse without growing those magnificent titties.

                What do I have to buy? Now I was going shopping. Hadn’t I done the same thing to her? It seemed poetic in a way, and utterly terrifying. At work, I was the boss. Even if my employees thought it odd that I was carrying a purse, most wouldn’t say anything. Not that I would fire them for mocking my situation, but it wasn’t something they would bring up just in case. Well, Carley brought it up, but she was leaving in less than a month. Besides, of all my employees, l worked with Carley the most and over the years she and I have developed a close, working relationship and even a friendship. As the one that worked the closets with me, it would be Carley that understood me the most and could mock me easiest.

                That little emoji sticking out its tongue was Cynthia’s answer.

                You’re not going to tell me, are you?

                Nope.

                That would make things more challenging. You said you had two things to tell me.

                You can’t come. I took that away from you, too. But, to make it more interesting, as you shop, and as your purse gets heavier with the items you think I want you to put in there, well, let’s say you’ll find that quite stimulating, you just won’t be able to do anything about it. You can try and I really hope you do, but you can’t come unless I give you permission.

                That thought scared me and yet I found it appealing. I had been too focused on my heels and purse to even think of touching myself but now that Cynthia said she’d taken my ability to orgasm from me, I found my mind and my hand drifting to my cock. I snuck a hand into my pants, slipping it underneath my pretty green panties. I touched my cock, finding my conversation with Cynthia had already engorged my flesh. I stroked the tip with my fingers, savoring the electric feeling. Now that she had taken away my ability to come, I found myself thinking of nothing else.

                You’re touching yourself, aren’t you? I could almost hear Cynthia laughing at me as her text came through.

With one hand, I responded: yes!

                You’re far too easy. Shit, I’ve got to go; phone’s ringing. Love you. See you tomorrow; have plans with girlfriends tonight.

                Tomorrow? What about the curse and was it a curse? It felt like one but it was more than that. It was an exciting game between lovers as well. I waited for an answer, but she was gone. And what was that about love? I knew we were growing close and it seems she was feeling it every bit as strongly as I, but could I call it love? I had never been in love. At least I don’t think I have. I’ve dated over the years. I even had a woman move in with me for about six months before she became distant and uncaring. I thought I loved her but looking back I think I was just desperate to have someone in my life for more than a week or two. The thought of all those relationships seemed to wane in comparison to what I was feeling for Cynthia. But was it love or something else? Was it just a shared experience fueled by the magic of the Wererock? But didn’t the best relationships start with a strong bond over a shared experience. Surely the rock was that.

                I heard Carley on the phone and then I heard her laugh. She seemed to be enjoying her conversation. I didn’t know it then, but she was talking to Cynthia. That I would learn later.

                I thought back to our conversation and opened of my web browser. I typed in a simple search: things every woman should carry in a purse. I wrote myself shopping list. I didn’t know what Cynthia wanted me to buy and if I was being honest, that made the game a lot more exciting. I wrote down two dozen different items. I didn’t know if I was going to need them all or if they were what Cynthia had planned, but to my programmer’s mind, going in and making a single trip to the store would be far less humiliating than making multiple trips and testing the magic of the curse in the privacy of my car before heading back into the store.

                Instead of leaving early, I worked until I was the last one there. Carley looked in on me as she was leaving for the day, wearing a grin I didn’t understand. It was like she was sizing me up or picturing me in some revealing pose. That look seemed to rob me of my power and transfer it to her, like I’d somehow been diminished in her eyes. “See you tomorrow, sir,” she said.

It sounded like she was mocking me and I had to swallow before I could answer, “Have a good night, Carley. Take care of that little one.”

She clutched her belly, “Oh, I will.”

I left the office as the clock chimed seven, my purse draped over my shoulder and my heels tapping out a song on the floor. Once I put my purse on the seat next to me, I felt the weight appear on my chest as my tits filled out my pretty, lacy bra. I had done well, going through the whole day with my purse in my lap. I had kept it with me, and the heels on my feet, exactly as Cynthia had wanted. Now, I had to go shopping just so I could take my heels out without growing breasts. It was an exciting dichotomy, having breasts, or wearing heels and carrying a purse. Both were solely feminine things to do and I was trapped in a situation bouncing between them. It made me excited but there wasn’t anything I could do about that. Not unless I had permission. Hell, even that thought sent a jolt of pleasure to my cock.

I drove to Walgreens, a local pharmacy that had a wide array of cosmetics and feminine products. I had my list of things to buy clutched in one hand, my purse draped over my shoulder and my long pants hiding most of my heels. I wobbled into the store, my feet still sore. I was looking forward to getting home just to take off my shoes. With luck, I’d find everything that I needed in the store to break the curse Cynthia had inflicted upon me. Of course, I didn’t know what I needed. That made it challenging.

I walked into the store, my heels announcing my presence. The tile was clean and slick and loud. I tried shuffling, trying to mask the sound but that made me look ungainly. I straightened up. Own it, isn’t that what Cynthia had said to me? I stood a little straighter and marched down every aisle, throwing item after item into the little green shopping cart I had clutched in one hand. I bought a tube of bright red lipstick, some eyeliner, mascara, and something called cover-up. I didn’t really know what most of this stuff did, but it would fill the purse and maybe it was what Cynthia had set up for me to buy.

I selected a compact with some light brown powdery makeup mashed into a hard cake. It had a mirror in it as well; that knocked two things off my list. I bought a comb, a brush, some bobby pins, a hair bow made of black ribbon and a couple of those elastic hair bands called scrunchies.

I bought a bottle of perfume, surprising myself when I sprayed six different sample bottles and selected the one I liked the most. I didn’t plan on wearing it but I couldn’t hope to know Cynthia’s plans.

I bought tampons, blushing as I put them into my carry-all. They seemed to be the most alien and they brought the biggest flush of color to my already crimson face. I bought a small plastic bag of winged panty liners and a bigger box of maxi-pads. I was blushing furiously but feeling quite sure that I was making the right purchase. I was sure that Cynthia had set me up to be humiliated and the items I was putting in my cart certainly brought a blush to my cheeks way more than the powered stuff I had selected from the make-up aisle.

I bought a pair of pantyhose and some baby wipes, a sewing kit that included needles, thread and a tiny pair of scissors. I bought gum and breath mints, soap and shampoo in airline approved sizes. Every recommendation I had read online had gone into my cart. I even threw in a small box of condoms, both because it was something a woman might carry and because I needed something masculine to offset the smorgasbord of lady’s products I was buying. Some items I overlooked, thinking a woman wouldn’t carry a disposable douche kit in her purse. It was a risk; it was possible I’d have to return to the store but Cynthia had said I needed the things every girl should carry and I was pretty sure that a disposable douche or scented candles weren’t exactly normal items.

I made my way to the registers. A skinny black woman began ringing up my purchases. She gave me a queer look but otherwise said nothing. I was thankful for that. Maybe she was polite, or maybe she was good at customer service. I think she saw the blush on my cheeks and let me go unchallenged. The few people in line behind me laughed and snickered. One little girl with short, brown hair tugged on her mother’s skirt and said, “Mommy, he has a purse just like you.” Even a little girl knew noticed a man with a purse. The mother said, “Yes, he does. Isn’t it pretty?”

“It’s funny.” Then she laughed. Mocked by a child. I felt every bit as small as she was. I had selected way too many items for the checkout process to be quick. I had to stand there, at the front of the line, holding my purse at my side, with the strap digging into my shoulder. I stood taller than normal, my heels elevating me so that I towered above the other patrons. I wished I had the Wererock so that I could make myself look like a woman. I had a whole wardrobe at home; this would have been far less humiliating if I had that powerful rock clutched in my hand. Instead, I was powerless, forced to hear the laughter and the muttered whispers about, “He’s wearing heels,” and the one that brought the most color, “what a sissy.”

I paid for my purchases and raced from the store. As the automatic doors whisked shut I heard applause. They were applauding me. Now I felt smaller than that little girl. My balls were tight, pulled upward as if they too were under assault. I guess they were.

I rushed to my car and dumped the three plastic bags full of stuff into my purse, with the purse sitting on my thighs. With everything tucked away I set the purse on the passenger seat. I did not grow boobs. I had the five items I needed. I didn’t know what they were, but my research had paid off. For the first time that day I felt victorious.

I stopped for dinner on the way home, paying and receiving my order at a drive-through window. I ate hot fries from the bag as I drove home and finished eating while sitting on my couch with my heels resting on the floor in front of me and my purse on the coffee table next to my dinner bag. For the first time in a while I was wholly me. I looked at my purse as I chewed; I never even thought of leaving it in the car. Was that because of the Wererock or because of Cynthia’s training? A girl never goes anywhere without her purse. I guess that was true and it was my purse.

After dinner, I experimented with my shopping. It was easy to do; I pulled something out of my purse and when my breasts expanded, I knew what I needed to keep, and back into my purse it would go. The list was short: lipstick, nail polish, a brush, tampons, and the small round mirror. I guess if I looked inside Cynthia’s purse I’d find those same things.  I kept them in my purse and put everything else in an empty drawer in the master bathroom. I didn’t think I would need them, but knowing how clever Cynthia could be I reasoned it would be better to save them instead of throwing them away. The condoms went in my nightstand. As an afterthought I put a few in my purse.

Cynthia texted me as I was getting ready for bed. How are the boobs?

Non-existent. I went shopping.

Good for you. I hope it wasn’t TOO embarrassing.

Somehow, I doubted her sincerity and told her so.

Did you have fun?

That was a question I had a hard time answering. It was humiliating, that much was certain and that made it far scarier than anything else. I recalled the taunting laughter I had heard and how small I had felt when that little girl commented on my purse. All of it had left me feeling, not really diminished, but slightly inadequate and out of place. A freak. But, conversely, the way my heart had been hammering and how tense I had felt, I had to admit that while it wasn’t fun, it wasn’t exactly horrible either. It was like riding a roller coaster. Scary, yes, but somehow more fun looking back at the ride than when you were actually on it.

She responded with an emoji of a bright yellow face blowing a kiss. What did that mean?

Can I come by?

Duh.

Good, I’m outside.

I spit out my toothpaste and slipped on a pair of shorts. I heard the doorbell ring. I opened the door and got the biggest surprise of the day.

I was staring at myself.