You Bet!

Part 4

By Kim Johns

---

 
Jean arrived at my place late Friday afternoon carrying her ubiquitous bag of odds and bobs, and told me that so far the plan had gone exactly as we had hoped. Now all we had to do was get me ready for my starring role. With no little apprehension running amok in the pit of my stomach I led her upstairs.

In my bedroom she placed the bag on the bed and rummaged in it for a second or two before throwing me a pair of flimsy pink panties, telling me to strip off and put them on. “And,” she told me with a curious smile on her lips, “Don’t expect another performance like last time. That was strictly a one-off. I’m Barry’s girl!”

I pulled a face, and then smiled back at her, feeling a little better. “There goes my only incentive,” I wailed in mock anguish (or was there a touch of regret there, too?), but picked up the underwear anyway.

She laughed at me. “Think of the beer,” she suggested.

Turning my back on her I stripped off my own clothes and slipped into the panties, tucking my boy bits away as best I could. As I felt the soft, smooth material, light but controlling around my nether regions, another shiver shook my body, this time one of sensual and sexual anticipation. When I turned to face Jean she looked me up and down slowly and critically.

“Right,” she commented, softly drawing her fingertips along the line of my jaw, “All you need to shave is your face, everywhere else is still as smooth as a baby’s bum from last time. Make sure,” she added as I headed for the bathroom, “That you have a shave close as you can get it. Perhaps even shave twice, once upwards against the grain of your beard and once downwards with it. You need to be as smooth as … well, as smooth as a girl’s face!”

I stared at her. “How do you know so much about shaving?”

“Come on, John, be real! I’ve got a father and a brother as you well know!”

With Jean’s laughter ringing in my ears I did my best, even managing to avoid nicking my skin with the edge of the razor (a hazard, especially the morning after a night on the tiles!) and afterwards as she once more stroked my cheeks she gave me a sisterly kiss of approval.

“Lovely. With a bit of slap covering this, you’ll do fine.”

“Slap?”

“Make-up, silly.”

“Oh.” I forbore to tell her of my previous two evenings’ experimentation. She might expect me to get on with it myself, and I knew I needed her expert guidance tonight, and most emphatically tomorrow night of all nights.

“Right, time for getting ready. The plan is to knock ‘em dead! To make you look feminine and sexy, you need to feel feminine and sexy. If a girl wants to feel really feminine and sexy, she wears sexy clothes from the skin outwards! Do the panties make you feel sexy?”

“They feel all right,” I conceded slowly, not wanting to let her know that I was already beginning to be aware of what she meant, and certainly not that I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I don’t think I fooled her, though, for she gave me a knowing look and laughed yet again. With anyone else I would have felt the laugh was directed at me, but knowing the girl as I did I felt confident that she was only sharing the humour of the situation with me.

“Just ‘all right?’” she asked, looking at me quizzically, her head to one side.

“Well,” I admitted reluctantly, “I guess they do have a bit of a raunchy feel to them.” I couldn’t help grinning at her. “Hell,” I admitted, “You’re right. They do feel sexy!”

I felt uneasy about the thought of telling Jean how comfortable I had started to feel wearing these clothes, or of talking about my feelings last night. The last thing I wanted from Jean was amused dismissal, although I had a strange feeling that would be the last thing she would do to me.

She had laid the contents of her bag tidily on top of my bed, and now selected from the various piles of clothing displayed there a suspender belt that was an identical pink to the panties I was wearing. She put it around my waist and I felt her warm fingers securing the clasp in the small of my back. The straps dangled against the tops of my legs, brushing them lightly.

“Stockings tonight,” she said. “As I say, it’s all about feeling sexy.”

"Oh God!" I thought, feeling my boy bits swelling at the thought, a dangerous excitement coursing through my veins, "Just what have I let myself in for?"

As she gently eased the suspender straps through the legs of the panties, causing me no end of embarrassment and further enlargement of my male member, I said, “So are you wearing stockings tonight?”

She glanced up at me with a wicked gleam in her eyes, a strand of hair falling across her forehead. “That’s for me to know,” she said defensively, “And maybe for Barry to find out!”

“That’s a great answer for when you’re talking to a bloke,” I told her. “What happened to ‘all girls together’?”

She paused, a pair of stockings in her hand that were as black and wispy as a Victorian London fog. “Oh yes,” she said, “I forgot you’re my girlfriend down for the week-end.” She giggled, and blushed slightly. “Of course I’m wearing stockings. Barry gets really turned on when I do!”

She pushed me into a sitting position on the bed, unrolling the stockings up my legs, and began fastening the suspenders to the bands at the top of my thighs. The feel of the delicate material over the unaccustomed smoothness of my lower limbs was amazing. I was beginning to understand what she meant by ‘feeling sexy!’

Poking once more into the pile of clothing beside me, Jean became the practical organiser again. “We need to know who you are, don’t we? Let’s talk about it.”

I looked at her in bewilderment. “What do you mean, ‘who I am’?”

She sighed at my stupidity. “I’m not going meet up with the guys and introduce you as John, am I? It might give the game away a bit, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yeah.” I hadn’t thought about it. Of course, I needed a girl’s name!

Jean looked at me, head on one side. “Well? What name do you fancy?”

My mind went blank, or to be more accurate stayed blank. I shrugged. “I don’t know. What do you think I look like?”

She laughed. “I won’t tell you what I think you look like. You mean, who do I think you look like?”

I nodded.

“Hmm. Well, as a John, I suppose you ought to be a Jean, but unfortunately that’s taken tonight!”

I wrinkled my forehead in concentration. Nope, still a blank.

“We’ve got to call you something. Surely there’s a girl’s name you like? What about an old girl-friend’s name?”

My brain had suddenly kick-started. “I know,” I told her. “When I was ill a couple of years ago and stuck in bed, I used to write a lot of stories. I had a pen-name then. I called myself Kim Johns. Kim ‘cause I liked it and it could be a boy or a girl’s name, and Johns because my name’s John. What do you reckon?”

She looked me up and down slowly. “Yes,” she finally said, slowly, “That’d suit you nicely. And Kim will be short for Kimberley, because that’s a proper girl’s name. Good thinking, John…er, Kim! Now, what’s the background story?”

That didn’t take long. It transpired that I was Kimberley Johns, an old school-friend of Jean’s whose family had moved away before she knew Barry. We had kept in touch by letter and phone, and eventually my family had decided to come down to see some old friends, including the girl’s parents, and I had taken the opportunity to join them, getting in touch with Jean to arrange a meeting.

“That’ll do,” said the girl, finally finding a pink bra that matched the panties and suspender belt. “We don’t want to have something long and involved worked out or they’ll sus it out at our first mistake.”

My face fell, realisation washing over me yet again. I was a boy, wasn’t I? No one on God’s earth would surely mistake me for a girl, whatever I was wearing. My anxiety deepened. “I reckon they’ll sus it as soon as we walk in the pub,” I moaned.

“Oh, be quiet.” Jean fastened the bra around me, adjusted the shoulder straps and popped what appeared to be a plastic chicken breast in each cup.

“What’s that?” I looked down curiously at the sudden development of breasts on my torso.

“Girly secrets,” she told me, winking. “The less endowed of us sometimes have to resort to artificial means to look as nature obviously intended us to look, but somehow fell down on the job! These,” she continued, “Look natural on you without suggesting you’re over-stacked in the boob stakes.”

Surprisingly, the inserts soon felt quite natural, nestling comfortably against my chest and gradually warming to skin temperature. I quickly forgot they were there, apart from the occasional jostling as I moved my body. It had never really occurred to me that girls’ breasts actually moved, until I recalled various sports days at school and my friends and me staring in wonder at the developing girls as they competed in various energetic activities.

Moving me to a chair near the window ‘for the natural light,’ Jean spent a long time over my make-up, doing all sorts of things to my face, cheeks and lips with various brushes and pencils and tubes, and concentrating on a particularly involved torture session around my eyes, until I began to get bored, but she finally stepped back to admire her handiwork.

“Once I’ve sorted your hair out, you’ll look great,” was her only comment, as she placed both hands on my shoulders to prevent me looking in the mirror.

She produced the wig, and began gently brushing it, twisting it to and fro in her hands until she was satisfied that she had straightened out all the tangles. Then she laid it on the bed and showed me a small piece of nylon.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a wig-cap,” she explained, although the term meant nothing to me.

Inclining my head forward on her instructions, I felt her pull the thing over my hair, which it flattened tight to my head.

“What’s that supposed to do?”

“It keeps your own hair secure and out the way, and forms a non-slip base for the wig to go on.”

“Non-slip?” Again, the thought hadn’t occurred to me. “You mean the wig might come off half-way through the evening?”

Jean chuckled. “Not by the time I’ve finished with it,” she told me. “I’ll make it so secure you’ll think it’s your own hair!”

She fiddled about with my head, and then placed the wig on me. I was conscious of the hair brushing my bare shoulders and the back of my neck. It felt incredibly sexy, and caused more blood to pump into my constrained boy bits.

“Go on,” she encouraged me, “shake your head about, really hard.”

I did as she requested, feeling the hair flying about my face as I did so. The wig stayed firmly in place, and Jean started to gently brush it into shape.

She spent even more time on my hair before finally allowing me to look at the finished product in the mirror. There was that girl again! My mother’s erstwhile daughter! Where the hell had she been hiding all these years? Was I being narcissistic in finding her so attractive? How can you fancy yourself?

With Jean’s help I stepped into the familiar black dress again, feeling strangely excited as the soft fabric embraced me once more, slipping over my hairless body like a second skin. Thank goodness for the flimsy strength of modern panties, I mused, as my male member struggled to express its approval. I moved my body experimentally, marvelling at how good I felt as the soft material brushed exotically against my stockinged legs. Jean smiled strangely as I slipped my feet into the slightly heeled shoes.

“You’re beginning to enjoy this, aren’t you?” She asked.

Embarrassed, I nodded, feeling a slight flush creeping up the back of my neck. I hated to admit it, but being a girl over the last few days had really got to me. It was beginning to feel ‘right,’ natural. Was I really changing, or had this other me been hidden inside since I was born? Was there something I was being told here?

“It does feel good,” I admitted. “I can understand why girls take a lot of time getting themselves ready to go out. I’ve never felt quite as sensual getting ready to go out as a boy!”

“Right!” No-nonsense Jean was fumbling in another small bag. “Just one more minor thing,” she announced, and grabbing both my hands slapped them palm down on top of the dressing table.

I looked down, mystified, as she made tutting noises with her tongue. “How long have you been biting your nails?” she demanded.

“Er…only when I’m hungry,” I admitted somewhat shamefacedly. One of my mother’s pet nagging sessions centred round my inability to stop nibbling at my fingernails. I had times when I managed to stop the habit for a while, but it only took a little bit of stress to find my fingers straying to my mouth again for a food fest.

“Well, at the moment they look pretty rough. No girl would be seen dead with them!”

I opened my mouth to protest, but she interrupted me. “Don’t worry, the miracle worker strikes again!”

She flourished a long, flat stick-like object and seized one of my hands,
sawing at my nails with gusto. “Fortunately,” she told me, “They’re just long enough to smooth into some semblance of respectability. Once we’ve done this and put a couple of coats of polish on them you’ll just about pass muster!”

“Polish?” Again I was baffled. The female world was continuing to present me with new surprises all the time, although now I came to think about it I recalled my mother’s occasional nail-painting sessions, and the odd smell that accompanied her ministrations.

“Nail polish, silly.” Jean confirmed, and started on my other hand. “You can’t go out without some colour on your nails.”

“Wait a minute.” I objected, pulling my hand back, a frightening thought occurring to me. “Does this stuff come off all right? I don’t want to waltz into work on Monday with bright red nails!”

She smiled silkily. “Would I do that to you?”

I nodded my head towards the stunning girl whose image was reflected in the small mirror. “You’ve done that to me!”

Jean released my hand and produced a small red bottle. Unscrewing the top, I saw her withdraw a small brush coated with the red liquid.

“I’ve only done what we agreed,” she reminded me, stroking the brush gently on my fingernails and leaving a glossy red sheen. Finishing one hand she made me spread my fingers wide and keep my hand away from absolutely everything while the polish dried, and started on the other.

I waggled my fingers the way I had seen my mother do, air-drying them, while Jean circled me critically, tugging gently here and there at my dress, smoothing it around the bust and hips. Finally she stopped in front of me, grinned and said the magic words.

“I think you’ll do.”

She took me by the hand and led me into my mother’s bedroom, prodding me reluctantly in front of the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. I had stared fixedly at the floor en-route, hesitant to be confronted by the obvious transvestite. Slowly I raised my eyes to stare at my image in the glass.

“Shit,” I said inelegantly.

Once more my female alter ego faced me, a beautiful teenaged girl dressed to go out on the town. However hard I stared I could sense no hint of masculinity in that glorious figure. I gazed in wonder, confused at the apparent ease with which I could change sex. I have said it before, and will no doubt do so again, but I was in love with that girl, who was my other self.

“Well?” Queried Jean.

I was speechless, and as Jean watched me staring incredulously at the mirror I saw her reflection smiling at me in pride.

“Did I do a good job, or did I do a good job?” she asked.

The lump in my throat obstructed clear speech. “You did a good job,” I croaked.

Her arm slipped gently round my shoulders. “So are we ready to meet the boys?” There was no urgency in her tone, just a gentle, casual question.

I swallowed nervously, calculating all the excuses available to me to get out of this. I had allowed Jean to take me this far, in the security of my own home, but now I was contemplating going further afield, out into the hard, cruel and unforgiving real world, where discovery would surely lead not only to total embarrassment but extreme humiliation as well. Could I handle it?

Without further comment, and still extremely casually, Jean handed me a small black patent leather handbag and a short, dark woollen coat, a little like a bolero with sleeves.

“There’s make-up in the bag, and a brush, and a purse for you to put some money in,” She told me, reading my expression accurately, and placing a firm but gentle hand on my arm. “But don’t worry; I’ll be with you every step of the way! Ready?”

Far from it, I thought, shrugging into the coat and bracing myself, but I nodded, taking a deep breath. It was do or die.

“Let’s do it!”
 

*          *          *
 
Walking out of the house and down my road dressed as I was proved to be the worst hurdle of all; as each slow moment passed I anticipated confrontation by one of our neighbours, instant exposure and mockery.

Every step was mental torture, and my whole body seemed unusually sensitive to outside tactile experience. I was acutely conscious of the feminine underwear settled silkily around my smooth skin; the light touch of the hem of my dress as it brushed my nyloned legs as I walked; the almost silent swish as my stockinged thighs made contact sounding like thunderclaps to my alert ears.

Strangely (thankfully) the road was deserted apart from us, and having safely negotiated a couple of streets without a problem, I felt the tension easing slightly in my mind and body.

In fact, our journey to the pub, by bus and train, was uneventful, although all the time I was frighteningly aware of my appearance, and waited with dread for fellow travellers or passers-by to suddenly unmask my deception with loud jeers and stabbing fingers.

It seems, however, that Jean’s estimation of my appearance was correct, and as our trip developed I found myself settling into my new role, becoming at ease with the feeling of femininity that the wearing of female apparel engendered. I began to feel more comfortable with the girl I had become, and the stiffness and caution began to evaporate. Even my erection had disappeared, my body obviously deciding that as I wasn’t available for myself, it might as well go with the flow.

I soon got used to the slight heel on the shoes, and Jean’s whispered advice had me sitting prettily in quick time, sweeping the rear of my skirt flat with the palm of my hand as I lowered myself to a seat to prevent creasing, and remembering to keep my knees clamped firmly together at all times.

Finally we reached our destination, and stood outside the pub in the dusk of early evening, listening to the music emanating from behind its closed doors and watching the bustling, chattering shapes partially obscured behind its brightly-lit windows.

Jean turned to me, gazing at my face carefully before gently adjusting my dress once more for me. I clutched my handbag rather more tightly than necessary as she asked: “Are you ready to go in?”

I nodded slowly, lying through my teeth, conscious of the fast beating of my heart and the feeling of an urgent need to urinate. However, before I had the opportunity to turn and run, Jean took my hand and pushed open the door, entering the noisy melee. I trailed cautiously behind her, being pulled slowly and inexorably into the loud and bustling hostelry, taking slow, deep breaths to calm my once more trembling limbs.

People standing grouped by or sitting near the door glanced up incuriously as we trooped in, pausing in their conversation, and my heart continued to thump violently at their casual, disinterested appraisal, only to settle slightly when they looked away, unconcerned, to continue their discourse with one another. My self-consciousness dropped a level, but had by no means disappeared.

As Jean stopped and looked around the smoke-filled, dimly-lit bar, trying to find where the boys were, the surrounding buzz of a million conversations assailed my ears, dazing me with its intensity. I had visited pubs on occasions too numerous to mention, but never before had I felt as sensitive to the sights and sounds as I did right now.

Jean nudged me. I looked past her and saw Harry and Barry sitting at a small table in the far corner of the pub. Of course, I thought bitterly, the furthest table from the door, just to make me wade through as many strangers as possible!

Barry half raised himself out of his chair to wave, and Jean waved back, then ploughed determinedly through the crowd without a backward glance. ‘Don’t forget me!’ my mind wailed as I followed her, keeping close and avoiding eye contact with anyone, focussing on her back as we forged deeper into the throng.

Vaguely as I twisted and turned, corkscrewing across the crowded room, I was aware of low comments in passing: “Well, hello!” or “Hi, babe!” or “Looking good, chick. S’later?”

All these I ignored, as did Jean, although I have to admit that they rather helped to bolster my confidence, even though I felt sure the remarks were aimed at Jean rather than me. At least no one had said ‘look at the guy in the dress!’ We finally reached the boys’ table.

Barry kissed Jean on the cheek, but I could feel his eyes and those of Harry giving me the once over, assessing me, appraising me; I started to understand what girls meant when they talked about men undressing them with their eyes. While waiting for the boys’ instant identification of me I felt cheapened by their openness. Was this the way I acted when looking at girls? The thought actually appalled me.

The denouncement never came, and the imagined spotlight in which I had felt I was standing slowly dimmed and went out.

Jean turned to me. “This is Kimberley,” she announced. “Kim, this is Barry, my boy-friend, and the one sitting down is Harry.”

Barry grinned at me and winked, and I smiled. The movement of my lips felt stiff and awkward, false, but he didn’t appear to notice.

Harry smiled up at me, and his eyes twinkled, and I realised he was turning on the charm as I had seen him do so often in the past when he saw a girl he fancied. Fancied! My mind numbed at that thought. Surely he had guessed who I was? The thought of him actually fancying me in this get-up was…amusing, I suddenly decided, smiling back at him quite naturally as Barry offered me a chair.

Jean shook her head before I could reply. “Why don’t you get some drinks while we pop to the Ladies,” she suggested.

“Sure. White wine for you.” He turned in my direction, and I saw again the appraising gleam in his eyes as he raised an enquiring eyebrow and looked me up and down once more.

“Thanks. The same, please.” I would rather have had a pint, in fact a couple would have been better, but felt that might be a bit inappropriate. My voice sounded low and husky (at least to me), but as with Harry Barry didn’t appear to have penetrated my identity.

I followed Jean to the Ladies Room and leaned against the door in relief as she checked out the cubicles. The palms of my hands felt clammy, and I could sense beads of perspiration on my brow.

“We’re on our own,” she announced, and grinned at me. “Well?”

I blew out a long, slow breath, slowly rubbing my palms together. “Don’t know. Do you think they’ve sussed it but aren’t saying anything?”

The girl took my bag from me, opened it and removed the lipstick. She handed it to me. “Freshen up,” she ordered, and I slipped the top off and turned to the mirror, gently and carefully applying colour to my lips, trying to remember how Jean had done it. She watched me, nodding approvingly.

“No,” she continued the conversation. “I was watching them both very carefully. I think I’d have noticed if they had realised it was you! Anyway, you know what they’re like. They would have thought nothing of announcing you as a guy very loudly to the whole pub, and watching your total embarrassment!”

“When are we going to let them know?” I wanted to get this charade over with as quickly as I could.

Again Jean’s wickedly impish grin spread over her face and eyes. “Let’s not be too hasty,” she suggested. “Why don’t we see how long we can get away with it?”

My heart sank a little. I had thought that, once the guys knew it was me hidden beneath these layers of female frippery I would be more confident. I was now being asked to continue the deception, putting myself in a position where the testing — and the tension — would continue. Then I lightened up, sensing the humour of the situation. Of course, it would be fun to see just how long it took both my mates, both self-confessed Lotharios, to realise that I was the third of our Musketeers!

I grinned back at Jean, a sudden confidence asserting itself. “Sisters?” I said, raising the palm of my hand to her.

“Sisters,” she beamed back, slapping my hand with hers, and turned towards the door.

“Er…Jean?” I hesitated.

“John — sorry, Kim?”

I was embarrassed. “I actually need to use the loo,” I told her.

She looked puzzled. “Go on then. I’ll wait.”

I hovered at a cubicle door, still looking at her, wanting to speak but suddenly too shy to do so.

“What is it?” Jean asked, and then a dawning light crossed her face. “You don’t know what to do?”

I nodded, and finally found my tongue. “It’s easy for blokes,” I said, “It’s just a question of unzipping, aiming and doing it!”

She grinned again. “I’m sure you would have worked it out for yourself,” she told me. “Listen, get in there, and sit! You’ll have to pull your dress up to your waist, out of the way, and slip your panties down to your ankles. Nothing to it! It would have been more difficult if you were wearing tights, you’d have had to pull them down as well! Then just do what comes naturally.”

I locked myself in the cubicle and followed directions, and she was right. I would easily have worked out what needed to be done. I realised that, despite my earlier assurance, I was still intensely nervous about everything, and not a little frightened as to how I was going to survive this evening.

I communicated my fears to Jean when I emerged from the cubicle, and she put an arm round my shoulder. “Look,” she said, “If you want to tell the guys straight away that you’re John, then that’s OK with me. Once that hurdle’s out of the way, and they’ve accepted it, your nerves should settle a bit.”

“Yes.” I thought about it, and her calm and reassuring attitude bolstered my concerns and indecision. “No! You’re right! We’ll go with the flow, see how long it does take them to work out who I really am!”

Jean rubbed my back soothingly. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She hugged me, gave me a light peck on the cheek, and we returned to the fray.
 

*          *          *
 
The evening passed quickly and easily, and the longer my deception remained uncovered, the more I relaxed into my new persona. I was puzzled by my friends’ apparent inability to work out my true identity, however. We had all known each other for years, and were more like brothers than pals. I knew they had had a couple of drinks before Jean and I had shown up, but surely that wasn’t enough to blind them to what I thought was painfully obvious?

We had a few more drinks, to the point where I was brave enough to suggest buying a round, and I went to the bar with Jean to get the order. The young guy behind the bar brazenly flirted with me, making subtle innuendos before actually asking me out for a date! He appeared disappointed when I declined, but the short incident made me feel much better about my female appearance, and shored up my confidence greatly.

At some point during the evening I found I was sitting next to Harry, and he was monopolising me in conversation whilst Barry and Jean chatted in low tones on the opposite side of the table, and I suddenly realised he was chatting me up! In some mental confusion I found myself flirting with him, and during a pause in the chatter observed that, whilst not actually in contact with my body, his arm was draped along the back of my chair. I caught Jean’s eye and she grinned and winked at me in a definitely non-girlish way.

Barry finally pushed his empty glass away and cleared his throat. “I’ve got an idea,” he announced. “There’s a club just along the road. Why don’t we see if we can get in for some late night bopping?”

He looked at Jean, who looked at me. Harry also turned to me. “What about it, Kim? Are you up for it?”

Jean gave an imperceptible nod, and I turned to Harry and Barry. “If Jean’s OK, I am,” I announced.

“Great!”

We all stood up, and I was treated to the oddity of Harry holding my coat open for me. I slipped it on with quiet thanks, and as we all left the pub became very aware of his arm possessively around my shoulders. Part of me wanted to shake him off, to let him know finally that he’d been taken for a ride, but another side of me felt flattered by his obvious attention. Besides, I suddenly realised that I was feeling very strange about this whole extremely surreal situation. Somehow I wanted to continue being female for as long as possible. It felt good to be fancied, and I felt good in the clothes that were now as natural for me to wear as my own. I felt a tension in my groin, a stiffening of my penis, but the panties Jean had given me, while light and flimsy, had an elasticity that kept me firmly in place, preventing me from unconscious betrayal.

Apart from a few moments wait in the queue we had no trouble in getting admission into the night club from the heavy, dark-suited bouncers at the doors, and soon found a table and drinks.

The music billowed about us from a multitude of speakers placed around the walls, and the multi-coloured disco lights flashed on and off in a random sequence, bathing our faces in an ever-changing tapestry of colour. The boosted bass level created a low, insistent throbbing that permeated my consciousness, duplicating its sound by causing an underlying beat through the tables, chairs and even the glasses from which we were drinking.

Before long Harry, who had been watching the crowded dance floor, became restless, tapping his long fingers on the table-top.

“Do you want to dance?” He finally asked me.

Shit! My mind blocked. I was a pretty useless dancer as a bloke. I had no idea how girls danced, even though I had spent countless evenings in countless discos enjoying watching their gyrations.

Jean obviously read my mind. “Kim and I are going to dance,” she said. “We need to talk.”

I saw Barry and Harry look at each other, and could almost read their minds.
Girls! They were thinking derisively.

Barry grinned. “Going to dance round your handbags?” he asked, obviously thinking it the funniest witticism of the century.

Noticing Jean had left her bag on her chair I did likewise and followed her onto the crowded dance floor. As we stood facing each other amongst the whirling throng, swaying gently to the music, I hissed “What the hell do I do now?”

“I knew you’d be worried,” Jean told me, a small grin on her lips. “That’s why I wanted us to come out here alone. Just do what I do, and then when you dance with Harry you can just do the same thing.”

As she began to move in time to the music I mirrored her movements, allowing my body to relax so that the dance became part of the rhythm of my mind and soul. I felt the skirt of my dress swishing against my nylons in a sexy, subtle way, and became aware of the sensual pull of the stockings against my legs as they were tautened and relaxed from the security of the suspender belt. The stiffness of my manhood was safe from prying eyes, secure beneath my panties, and I closed my eyes, feeling the taut band of my bra around my chest, and the thrust of my false bosoms against the front of my dress as I moved. The music infiltrated my very being and as I swayed to the insinuating rhythm my mind was a million miles away. Gone was the dance floor and its athletic population, gone was the booming music, vanished save for a faint beat mega miles behind my eyes, gone was Jean, my female mentor. I had no need for her now, for I was female, I had been changed, transfigured…

I must have been lulled into a trance by the hypnotic lighting and the steady insistent throbbing beat of the music, for as I let the rhythm soak into me, moving my body with the beat, I was Kim, body and soul. I don’t know what happened to John, he didn’t figure in my life at all at this strange moment, all I was aware of was that I was all girl, attractive and available. My movements were suddenly fluid and natural, my hands moving lightly over my body as the music moved me. My mind remained turned inwards, soaking up the oddly sexual experience…

“Careful,” I suddenly heard Jean whisper, her lips close to my ear, and felt her hand on my arm. “You’re looking and acting incredibly sexy now. Don’t you realise half the guys in this place are watching you?”

Earlier the news that I was under scrutiny would have terrified me. Now I felt totally laid-back and in charge. I half-opened my eyes and smiled at her worried and concerned expression.

“I feel incredibly sexy,” I told her quietly, still giving in to the music, letting it wash over me as my whole body relaxed. I was Kimberley, young, female and beautiful, suddenly aware of my terrible power over men, playing tease with the mind of every male in the place!

Jean moved closer again and tightened her grip. “If you keep this up,” she hissed in my ear, “I’m going to have to try and stop a mass rape on you!”

She gently pulled my arm, and as I came down from my euphoric cloud she led me, slightly dazed, from the dance floor and back to the table.

Both Harry and Barry were staring at me open-mouthed, and I felt strangely gratified at their undisguised attention as I sat down, modestly pulling the hem of my dress over my knees as I did so.

Jean swatted Barry gently with the back of her hand. “Close your mouth, lover,” she told him, “There’s a train coming!”

There is no doubt that the evening was becoming a huge success. The boys seemed no closer to realising who I was than before, and I danced with both Harry and Barry, chatting abstractly (although to be honest I encouraged them to do most of the talking) and becoming increasingly more confident in myself. The incident on the dance floor had somehow altered my perceptions, and I was beginning to feel completely female. John had vanished altogether (who was John?). I thought of myself only as Kim, Jean’s girl-friend.

We were sitting at the table again when the slow music started, and Harry took my hand and pulled me to my feet. I rose obediently. Barry and Jean followed suit, and we squeezed onto the dance floor.

Harry pulled me close to him, and I felt his hands clasped behind my back, relaxed and nestling at the base of my spine just above my buttocks. My body instinctively stiffened with the shock of such an unexpected intimacy. Whilst I had been having great fun as a girl, I hadn’t been quite prepared for close-up, in your face dancing. We were both blokes, for goodness’ sake!

Kim quickly came to my rescue. Pushing John back into the dim recesses of my brain she made my body relax, once more go with the flow. Even so, I realised I didn’t have a clue what to do with my own hands, and glanced wildly around.

Jean and Barry were entwined, she with her arms around his neck and kissing him. That would never do, John told me, re-emerging from the deep realms of my mind to which he had been banished. I spotted another couple, and this time the girl had one arm behind her fellow’s back and the other resting on his shoulder. Her head was resting on his other shoulder, facing away from him.

That’ll do, I thought, and adopted the same position, feeling strangely comfortable and comforted by Harry’s close proximity, and somehow aware of his masculine aroma, the dry, musky smell of his aftershave, something I’d never noticed before as a bloke.

Harry pulled me even closer to him, and we swayed to the music, the crowded dance-floor only allowing us the luxury of moving in a tight circle as we danced.

I was aware that his hands had slipped down to lightly cup my buttocks, and our stomachs were flat against each other. I felt a slight stiffening against my leg, and gasped silently at the imminent discovery, only to realise that it was Harry who was being aroused! In a moment of impulse I clasped him closer to me, allowing my legs to part slightly as I pressed my hips into his groin.

Again I felt the strange but wonderful sensation of my female clothing brushing my body as we moved, felt the freedom the dress gave me and the beautifully sexy sensation of the nylon as it clasped and teased my legs. How good it must be to be a girl all the time, to feel this way and to know how much of an effect you are having on the guy you’re with. My head was enveloped in dreamy clouds of infatuation as I nestled my head against Harry’s chest.

I felt his breath tickling my ear as he whispered, “I never asked, Kim. Do you have a boy-friend?”

I shook my head. “Not at the moment,” I breathed truthfully.

He hugged me, if it were possible, even closer to him.

“You know I like you lots, don’t you?”

I pressed gently against his erect penis. “Oh yes,” I told him.

I felt his lower body move away from me slightly. “Sorry,” he said, and there was an unaccustomed shyness in his voice. I heard myself laughing lightly.

“Don’t be sorry,” I said, moving into him again.

I felt his lips brush my cheek, and then became conscious of him leaning his head towards me. Looking up I saw his eyes, intense, staring into mine, and his lips slightly open as his head lowered. Without thinking I turned my face up to his and he kissed me lightly on the lips. Heaven help me, I returned that kiss, and with a passion I never realised I possessed.

My mind whirled. What on earth had possessed me? John was a small voice echoing in my brain from a gigantic distance somewhere on the other side of the universe. It was Kim who had taken over, usurping my mind and body, and I was completely at her mercy at this moment in time, body and soul.

“Let’s go outside,” Harry suggested. “It’s a bit too hot and crowded in here.”

“Outside?”

“They’ve got a small area outside with a bit of a garden and a patio.”

As he took my hand and led me towards a large pair of glazed double doors that led outside I saw Jean looking at me with an unspoken question in her eyes. I shrugged, and followed Harry.

The outside area was quiet, the music only just filtering through, and I noticed one or two other couples had chosen to leave the main room. They were all, without exception, glued to each other, silent statues in the moonlight.

Finding a quiet corner Harry put his arms round me and pulled me to him once more, and kissed me on the lips, his tongue probing. Every fibre of my being was telling me to jerk away from him, to leave this dangerous situation and go back inside, find Jean and run, but somehow I found myself powerless to do so. I wanted Harry to kiss me, for God’s sake, and I found myself kissing him back, holding him tightly to me as if to never let him go. As we clung together I was aware of his hand slipping to my bosom, closing gently around one breast and squeezing slightly. Of course, I couldn’t feel anything, but let out a soft moan anyway. Was it for encouragement? I don’t know. I didn’t pull his hand away.

Meanwhile his other hand was stroking my leg over the flimsy material of my dress. As we nuzzled and kissed I felt him pause suddenly as he found the clips of my suspenders, and then he was slowly pulling the skirt of my dress up, easily and steadily, with no fuss, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be doing.

I was caught up with his kissing, ensnared by a strange demand to know his passion, yet another part of my mind (John again?) was alert to discovery. Harry found and stroked my bare legs where my stocking tops were secured by the suspender clips, then moved his hand upwards again to the silky material of my panties. I reached gently down then, moving his hand and letting my dress slip back in place. My own erection must have matched Harry’s by the feel of it, but thankfully I was still securely bound in place or discovery would have been instantaneous.

We continued kissing, and our tongues were playing intense tonsil tennis, but I was instinctively aware of Harry’s disappointment.

What devils took hold of me that night I don’t know, for I whispered a “not yet” in his ear and moved my hand downwards and gently rubbed it against the gigantic bulge in his trousers. I heard his low gasp.

Fearfully, yet continuing, still being controlled by Kimberley, the girl I had become, I pulled down the zipper of his trousers and slipped my hand into the opening. He was not difficult to find, and I eased his stiffened member out, holding my fist completely around it.

He sagged back against the wall, eyes closed and head back as I gently moved my thumb and index finger up and down his erect shaft, and small groans emanated from his throat.

Again the evil imp took over, and I bent my knees, balancing a little precariously on my heels as my head levelled with him. I closed my eyes and licked his penis, cupping his testicles in one hand. My tongue travelled to the soft flesh beneath his glans, and I heard more moans from deep within his throat.

Finally, and with no compunction, hesitation or disgust, I took his penis in my mouth, gently slipping my lips around his engorged shaft and playing him with my tongue.

He shuddered and grasped each side of my head with his hands, forcing my mouth further along his enlarged member, and I felt his body stiffen suddenly. I was immediately aware of hot liquid gushing into my mouth and down my throat, and reflex action caused me to gulp quickly to prevent drowning!

I jerked my head back, returning abruptly to the reality of the situation, and his penis slipped from me. A quick glance showed me his eyes were still closed. My stomach revolted, and I turned my head away and as quietly as possible sent a stream of hot bile and God knows what else onto the ground.

I felt beads of sweat on my brow, and a sense of bewilderment, disgust and self-loathing. What on earth did I think I was playing at? How could I possibly have acted like this with another guy?

My mind slipped backwards into the middle distance where it hovered in a turmoil of disbelief over the sequence of events of the last five minutes. I felt Kim popping to the fore, peeping smugly through my eyes, satisfied at the results her actions had created in Harry.

He still leaned against the wall, eyes closed, breathing deeply. I fumbled in his pockets and, finding a handkerchief, dried his deflating penis off before slipping it back inside his trousers and zipping it safely away.

I wiped my own mouth with a clean portion of the handkerchief, and dabbed my forehead before placing it back in his pocket and standing up in front of him.

He looked at me through half-open eyes. “That was fucking terrific,” he said, and impulsively I put my arms around his neck and kissed him. What the hell was the matter with me? One moment I was male, appalled at the situation in which I found myself, the next minute I was all female, wanting him to love me!

He clasped me to him, and I cursed my maleness at that moment. I suddenly wanted him to hold me and know me, not as a man but as a woman, to feel him inside me, big and warm. Mentally I cursed Jean for her help in putting me in this irresolvable situation, then realised that it was a totally unfair thought. All she had done was what I had asked her to do. There was only one person really to blame, and that was me!

“Will I see you again?” Harry asked earnestly, and my thoughts vanished as I returned to the here and now.

“I’m sure you will,” I told him mischievously, wishing I was truly female, and that we could have the opportunity of becoming a couple.

“But you’re going back home with your family …”

“Tomorrow,” I said.

“Will you give me your phone number?”

“We’re moving at the end of the week,” I lied constructively. I didn’t know how else to handle this situation. “I’ll phone you.”

“You don’t know my number.” Shit, I’d forgotten that Kimberley didn’t — although of course, John did!

“Give it to me,” I said suggestively, and kissed him again. He held me tightly, as if never wanting to let me go. I certainly didn’t want him to.

“You’re not just saying that?” He asked doubtfully. “I will see you again?”

I touched his lips with my fingers. “I promise,” I told him truthfully. “We will meet before very long!”

“In that case,” and he struggled, working both hands together, before handing me a ring I knew he always wore on his left hand. “Take this,” he urged. “Take it, and I’ll know you mean what you say.”

I placed the ring on one of my fingers, and hugged him again, feeling once more his body’s urgent response to me. “Do you doubt me?” I asked.

He looked me closely in the eyes and opened his mouth to speak, then paused, looking at me carefully again, a curious expression flitting over his face. A couple of puzzle lines appeared between his eyebrows.

Shit, I thought, finally rumbled. “What’s wrong?” I asked, trembling inwardly.

“Nothing,” he said, a puzzled expression on his face, “I thought for a moment…” He shook his head. “Déjá  vu,” he muttered.

I forced a laugh. “You’re strange,” I said.

“That’s what I’ve always thought,” came Barry’s voice from behind us.

We turned, and saw him and Jean laughing at us. “We thought we’d give you a bit of time to… get acquainted,” Barry smirked.

I ran a hand through my hair, glancing at Jean and encountering an extremely quizzical and enquiring look. My God! How long had they been standing there, watching us? “Later,” I mouthed at her, and she nodded.

We left the club, and Harry and I sat in the back seat of Barry’s car, his arm around me but saying nothing. I automatically leaned my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes, the strange events of the evening buzzing in my brain.

At Jean’s request Barry dropped us off close to her home, as she had told him my parents and hers would be chattering about old times, and it wouldn’t be fair for the boys to come in and interrupt. When they had gone, we got a cab to my place, where my mother had said Jean could stay for the night, and she helped me clean off the make-up and put the clothes and wig away.

“You’ve got a lot to tell me, I think,” said the girl, giving me another of her curious but knowing looks.

I blushed uncontrollably. “I have, and I will, but in the morning,” I told her.

She nodded, smiling at me as she had earlier that evening, a knowing smile as if she were aware of a secret I had not yet become privy to.

“Oh!” I suddenly put my hand to my mouth, a very girlish gesture I immediately realised.

“What?”

“We didn’t tell the guys who I really was!”

Jean gave me the odd look again. “I got the feeling in the car that you weren’t too keen to do that,” she remarked.

I blushed again under the intensity of her knowing gaze. “No, you’re right,” I admitted. “I didn’t.”

Jean laid a hand on my arm. “Girl’s talk in the morning?” She said.

“Girl’s talk in the morning,” I promised.

Impulsively she put her arms around me and held me close. Her perfume was light but heady, and I closed my eyes. I felt her soft kiss on my forehead before she moved away.

“Goodnight, Kim,” she said, and I opened my eyes to see her heading for the door. She glanced back briefly, and there was something in her own eyes as she looked at me that made me feel a little uncomfortable. Then she smiled at me, a warm, loving smile, and my discomfort vanished.

I settled down that night with my head whirling. Things were happening that I didn’t quite understand, and happening with an incomprehensible speed. I couldn’t explain the deep reasons behind my actions this evening, why
I had acted in the strange way I had. A sense of repulsion and disgust swept over me and I buried my face in the pillows, feeling tears flowing from my eyes. Kim and John. John and Kim. Two people in one body, first one to the fore, then the other, in a bewildering series of changes. Who, in truth, was I?

Perhaps, after Saturday night, my confusion would be resolved, and I would be myself again.

Or would I?
 

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