. . . . I was just trying to figure out if I had enough clothes for a week. I may have to go shopping."

Rebecca laughed. "Sara, you have more clothes than I do!"

"I do not," I complained.

In the morning, Rebecca was back. As we sat at the black granite kitchen counter, an unusually bright autumn sun shining through the window over the sink, we sipped our coffee and munched on English muffins, mine with butter, hers with orange marmalade. As she finished her first half muffin she said, "You know Sara, I'm really worried about you. Once someone gets you hot, you'll do anything to get laid. I bet Phil has you on your back and begging for it before you know what hit you."

"Rebecca? How can you say such a thing? That was for you, not anyone else! Especially not Phil!"

By then, a huge smile had taken over Rebecca's face and I realized she was goofing on me. But thinking back on the events of last night, I must admit that a little doubt was creeping into my mind. I literally had been out of control. Becca had played me like I was a violin and she was a virtuoso. *It had just been for her, hadn't it?* I wondered.

Rebecca broke into my thoughts, "We've got eight days,"

"Huh?"

"Eight days Sara, before your big date. I want you in girl mode 24/7 until then. And I want you to wear your breast forms, so having them on is second nature to you."

"Uh huh," I muttered offhandedly, because I was already thinking about what I was going to wear after breakfast, along with the clothes I would have to buy to make it through a whole week. I’d need all new stuff! Then realizing what she had said, and that it was a real change in the rules, I finally replied, "I can?"

"Oh geez, where is your head? Did I fuck your brains out last night? Did I turn my Sara into a little bimbo," Rebecca teased me.

That got my attention. "No," I said, indignantly. I was just trying to figure out if I had enough clothes for a week. I may have to go shopping."

Rebecca laughed. "Sara, you have more clothes than I do!"

"I do not," I complained.

She just smiled at me indulgently. "That doesn't mean you don't have to go shopping, but don't you dare try to go without me," Rebecca shot back. "I want in on this game too. If last night is any indication, this WILL be fun."

I smiled up at her demurely. "If Becca visits again, I'm sure it will be," I said as dreamily as I could.

***

We spent most of Saturday and Sunday at various Malls and shopping centers far away from home. I was dressed as Sara, starting off in a blue denim mini, pale pink, long sleeve tee with eyelet lace around the collar and cuffs, and Rebecca's snow white short quilted ski jacket with fur around the hood. With a colorful scarf tied round my neck and my makeup dominated by pink, I felt like a femmy little (well no so little) pouf. Rebecca, dressed just as she had been the night before, was Becca. She wore heels and I wore flats, so she was actually a little taller than me. I hung on her arm as we walked, just like a woman might do with a man.

The two of us had a great time filling in the imagined gaps in Sara's wardrobe. The truth was, I already had a rather healthy collection of very sexy lingerie, more than a dozen fancy dresses, an array of shoes, including five beloved pairs of four-inch heels, and a good collection of jeans, slacks, skirts of many lengths, and tops like the one I had worn yesterday. I mean really, I could have gotten through two or three weeks without buying anything. But you know what? I hadn't bought anything since last spring, and how could any woman (or at least any self- respecting crossdresser) pass up an opportunity to add to her wardrobe when she really needed clothes for a new season?

So I updated. I got a couple of skirts, one of them quite short and flirty, and an adorable, red, crinkly broomstick skirt with yellow roses printed on it. There was also a daringly tight black pencil skirt that stopped just at my knees and nearly hobbled me. Becca loved it. I got a great looking silky, white, button front blouse to wear with it. To go with the other skirts, I got tees, twin sets, cotton sweaters and some stretchy turtle necks. Best of all though was an eyelet lace, French cuff white shirt that was hemmed to wear over pants. With a couple of buttons undone, and the way its darts pulled it in at my waist, it was really sexy. I got some low-heeled shoes and a pair of great over the calf black boots with a three-inch heel. Shopping with Becca was just about the most fun I had ever had. At least that's what I thought until I remembered the previous night. That was the most fun I had ever had, for sure, but this was great in its own way. I’d make sure to thank her appropriately.

I wanted pants, but Becca would only agree to a pair of really tight, low cut jeans and some capris. I also got some workout clothes, including sports bras, leotards, and tights that would go with my blue and pink cross trainers. I insisted on some nylon running shorts as well, although Becca really didn't approve. "But I want to see your cute little butt," she teased, grabbing it as several women looked on. I hoped they believed they were watching two cute lesbians.

"But do you also want to see my cute little bulge?" I whispered, surreptitiously brushing the back of her hand over my crotch to make sure she got the picture. Her eyes went wide for a moment, then she giggled. But without saying anything else, she immediately pulled a couple of pairs of nylon shorts off the rack, selecting more vibrant versions of the navy and cranberry I had selected.

Finally, we looked for something for me to wear to my dinner with Phil. We looked at stuff that was either hot and sexy, flowingly romantic, or very dressy, like the long emerald green gown with the stunning side slit that we were now studying. But then I realized that we were approaching this the wrong way. "Becca, this is all wrong," I whispered as I ran my fingers lovingly over the silky fabric. I don't want to make myself alluring for him. I just want to look feminine and presentable.

"Huh?" she replied, looking at me like I had two heads. "Your date is taking you to one of the trendiest new restaurants between here and Manhattan, and you're not going to dress up for him?"

"That's not what I said; I just don't want to look sexy. Can't I be modest and demure? I mean, what about a Chanel style suit or something like that?"

"Hmmm," she considered, cocking her head in a way that was sort of her trademark, and looking back and forth from me to the dress. "Are you telling me that you don't want to be strutting into the restaurant, with your black stocking-clad leg thrusting through this slit while all the men turn and ogle you? What kind of transvestite are you?"

"Rebecca! Please! Keep your voice down!" I was still whispering, but she was talking in a normal tone of voice. "I'm a girl," I said, emphasizing the word girl, "who doesn't want her date to think she's available. You can be pretty without being sexy. You do it everyday."

"Ahhh, flattery will get you everywhere my dear," she said reaching over to kiss my cheek. “I see your point. I guess I was getting carried away. You want to dress for a business date. I guess I was thinking about how I would like to dress to go out. I wear business clothes every day so I want to dress up prettily when I get the chance."

She carefully hung the green dress back on the rack, straightening the skirt as she slid it back between the other long dresses. Then she turned to me and said, "We're in the wrong department. Come with me."

We continued to look, but didn't find anything we liked. I was dejected, but Becca wasn't. "That's okay," she chirped. "We'll just have to go out during the week until we find something."

I looked at her like this was going to be an impossible task.

"Don't give me that look," she said, condescendingly, like she was talking to a idiot. "I simply can't believe you aren't dying to go out shopping again."

I gave a guilty smile and a shrug, and with my eyes lashes fluttering, I said, "When?"

"Oh you," she responded, throwing her arms around me in a big hug.

***

On Tuesday night, I took Becca out with me to look at the dresses I had scouted out over the last two days. I was already dressed in a simple jumper and turtle neck sweater, and assumed Rebecca would wear something casual as well. But she was in her new Becca uniform, tight black pants, this time with a nearly sheer white blouse, black leather jacket, and high, high heels. I took one look at her and I fled back into Sara's room to change. She laughed at me, taunting, "Can't my little girl decide what to wear?"

*Now that's a first,* I thought. I guess I had teased her often enough when she couldn't figure out what to wear, so I had to laugh at her payback. "No," I shouted back through the door. "Besides I have no intention of looking like a shlub when you look so hot. I want to look good for you so your eyes don't wander."

It was her turn to laugh. She often accused me of looking at any attractive woman who happened to pass by while we were out. While I was still undressing, she knocked on my door, and without waiting for me to answer, opened it.

"I want you looking sweet and feminine," she said, "I'll pick your clothes." So that's how I ended up with my brand new pale gray and charcoal abstract print mini, a delicious wrap around chiffon blouse that had no buttons but tied at the waist, and black pumps with two-inch heel. This made us the same height. The blond wig from the picture was tightly pinned to my head, and Becca did my makeup so I looked like an innocent, doe-eyed teenager, with sweet, glossy pink lips. I was a sharp contrast to her bright red lips and other wise severe image. Anyone looking at us could tell who the top was in this relationship.

It didn't take us long to figure out that we still had clearly different ideas about how I should dress for my date with Phil. Despite our previous conversation, Rebecca wanted me in a little black dress, something she discovered in a bias cut matte jersey that was flowy, clingy, and sexy. I'm not even sure she was thinking about how Phil might react. Instead I think (I hoped) she saw me as her sweetly feminine, sub lover, and she was dressing me for her own pleasure.

I, however, was having none of it. I wanted something structured, in a thicker fabric that would not cling to my non-existent curves. I wanted to look like a woman, not a girl, and like a business woman, not a sex object. The way I saw it, I had to look elegantly feminine, and be passable and attractive. My evening with Phil was going to be hard enough without putting any untoward thoughts into Phil's, or anyone else's, mind.

So we struck a deal. I would select what to wear on my date with Phil, my first ever date with a man, but she would select something far sexier, for a date with Becca. *What the hell, What kind of trannie would turn down a sexy dress?* So when I nearly swooned over a short dress with tiers of chiffon over the skirt and virtually no back, Rebecca immediately had me try it on. What made this dress special to me was that it had two long straps of rhinestones that crossed once just after they arose from the rather modest bodice and then ran over my shoulders, only to cross again halfway down my back before attaching again to the bottom of the draped back, right above my ass. I would have to glue my breast forms on to wear this. No way I could wear a bra, but God, what a sexy dress.

I had taken only two steps out of the dressing room before Becca made me do a twirl, and then said right out loud for everyone to hear, "You're buying that one, and I'm taking you out dancing tomorrow!"

I nearly blanched when I saw everyone who was nearby turn to stare at us. But then I figured, what the hell, and ran to her in slightly mincing steps, throwing my arms around her shoulders and saying, "Oh, would you?"

There was a forty something couple directly in my line of sight and I almost laughed out loud when I saw the man's jaw fall open, while his wife rolled her eyes and punched him in the arm. "Oh grow up, will you Robert? It's not like you've never seen lesbians before." she scolded.

Not being able to resist such juicy moment, I winked at him, and after a moment's hesitation, he smiled back at me and then turned to go with his wife, who by this point was doing all she could not to laugh out loud. The last thing I heard was his voice saying, "But she was cute." I just beamed. It never even occurred to me that he might have been talking about Rebecca.

I then disengaged myself from Becca, who was looking at me the way a starving man looks at a steak. In a teasing response, I used my fingertips to grab the edges of the dress at mid thigh level, lifted it slightly, and ducking my head, I bobbed a little curtsey, something I had perfected years ago because it seemed like something a good trannie should know how to do. Back when I had first started going out, I and a few of my T-girl friends started calling ourselves trannies even though many crossdressers and transsexuals find the term an insult. We figured that we could use it as a way of sticking our fingers in the eyes of those who used it as an epithet. I’d never call anyone else a trannie even though that’s how I thought of myself. "Now that we've got the dress you want, let's find the one I need."

We found it two stores later. It was a dark blue and silver satin brocade in a subtle paisley pattern. The simple high-waisted, hip hugging skirt fell straight to just above my knees, and the matching four button peplum jacket, which gave me the illusion of a smaller waist and wider hips, was perfect. Although the neckline didn't show any cleavage, it actually showed a good deal of skin because the notched collar was cut wide towards the shoulders. My fake black pearls would look perfect with it. Becca insisted I buy the smaller size, which I barely fit into at the waist because she said, "The jacket fits better and we can fix your waist."

I wasn’t sure what she meant.

Once I had paid for it and a couple of pairs of stockings to go with it (no pantyhose for you Becca declared), I thought we were done. I already had a perfectly good pair of four-inch black pumps. But Becca declared, "One more stop." We eventually ended up in a custom lingerie store, where I looked around in awe at the absolutely gorgeous bras, panties and other stuff, and then almost gagged at the absolutely earth-shattering price tags. In the meantime, Becca talked quietly with the one saleswoman.

"Okay, hun," the woman said turning to me. "Let's get your measurements." With that, she led me into the back and had me strip down to my undies, which didn’t even cause her to blink, but which sent my heart rate way up. We left an hour later, each of us with two very beautiful (and expensive!) sets of French lingerie. Becca had wanted to buy me a corset, but I resisted and ended up instead with a less scary looking waist nipper. It took me in almost three inches without much discomfort, but would be cut so that I could be taken in six inches eventually. I made it clear to Rebecca that there was no way that was happening unless it happened to her too. "We'll see," was all she said. In any case, the skirt would now fit easily.

I got through Wednesday and Thursday in a state of barely restrained anxiety. I dressed up in a dress and heels each day, as Rebecca had suggested, and spent a good deal of time in front of the mirror, working on my gestures and movements. Dressing only for myself for so long had left me a little rusty. At the same time, I kept up a constant patter of conversation, practicing both my voice and my choice of words, and rehearsing how I would respond to various things I imagined Phil might say. I knew from past experience that when I got nervous, my voice tended to crack, and I wanted to be sure that didn't happen because I knew I would be nothing but nervous around Phil.