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Sam's transformation continues, now including what he is required to wear according to his contract. He's really becoming a WunderGirl.

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WunderGirl

Copyright© 2021 Shauna J. Rousseau
All Rights Reserved.
(Cover image designed by Joyce Melton.)
(Image Source: Photo 30023749 © Vladimir Nikulin - Dreamstime.com)

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~ Day 14 ~
 

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* * * * *
Sam
* * * * *
 

I wake up right before my alarm goes off. My nerves are completely frazzled!

The past week was awful at the lumberyard. The guys there gave me total shit! A couple of them even scared me—I think they think I suddenly turned gay, or something. And they’re total homophobes! So, I’ve been doing my best to avoid them.

Like that really works. I don’t know how I’m going to survive this! I’ve got to somehow convince Dad that he needs to let me off the hook at the lumberyard. Or convince Mom to convince him…

The weekend was only better in that I didn’t have to go to the lumberyard, but Mom insisted I go to the mall with her to get some clothes. My skin has become so soft and sensitive that my normal clothes feel more like coarse-grit sandpaper than cloth.

I made the huge mistake of mentioning that to her. I mean it was an honest slip, but she pounced right on it when I said it. Sure, she likes to shop with Gemma—and she seems to be treating me more like her lately than as…me…

That became even more apparent when we got to the mall. She dragged me into all of these clothing stores and ‘we’ looked through rack after rack of girls’ clothing.

I felt like absolutely dying when she made me go into the girl’s changing room and try on several pairs of girl’s jeans.

OK, I mean they don’t look like girl’s jeans—if you ignore the really short zipper and the pockets that might as well not even be there. At least, they don’t have like jewels all over them, or lace, or anything. They are skin-tight, plus a little on the short side.

But they are soft and stretchy.

OK, so they feel really nice, but that’s beside the point! I’m a guy! Guys don’t wear girl’s jeans!

And I let her know that.

So, she got me five pairs—totally ignoring my objections.

Then she found these shirts—well, I’m calling them shirts—she called them ‘tops’. Anyway, they’re mostly not girly. I mean, yeah, they feel great and you have to look kind of really hard to tell that they’re not guy’s. The cut is somehow wrong, but like the jeans, they are soft and much more comfortable than my normal shirts. But they are girl’s! So, I let her know I don’t need them!

Yep! Five of those, too.

Where I absolutely drew the line, though, was when she insisted that I get girl’s panties because—in her words—they’re so much softer than the ugly, itchy things I normally wear. And supposedly my guy underwear shows through the jeans, or something.

OK, so it did bunch up under them. But I didn’t pick them out.

I mean, I flat out refused to get the panties! I put my foot down!

No, really!

So, my underwear drawer is now full of girl’s panties in all these pastel colors. She calls them ‘bikini cuts’ and that we’ll look into thongs later. So what if they’re more comfortable? They’re girl’s!

She didn’t stop there, though! Oh no, my sock drawer is now full of short, stretchy, really soft girlie socks. You know, the ones that don’t show above the tops of your sneakers and look like you don’t even have any on. I guess that’s good, because they’re all the same girly pastel colors as the panties.

She completely foils my plan to just sneak into my normal socks and undies when she loads them all up and takes them to the Goodwill—along with all of my old jeans and most of my old shirts.

My usable wardrobe is now mostly from the girl’s department. It’s freakish!

I sigh as I finish my morning routine. I’m now two weeks into it—well, one week into the serum stuff, nail balm, and ear care—and it really is pretty much a routine now. I don’t really have to think about anything. It’s just sort of automatic when I go through the motions of the routine.

I comb through my damp hair after pulling on one of my new ‘shirts’ and sigh. It’s grown at least another inch! I look at my fingernails in the mirror as I follow my comb pulling through my hair. I stretch out my fingers in front of my face and grimace. They’re really long, and really strong. The weird thing is that the new growth is bright-red—like the same color as my lips.

It completely freaks me out!

I so want to cut them! They really dig into my hand when I do things like just hold a pencil. They stick out over the ends of my fingers and get in the way of everything. I mean they aren’t huge, long talons, or anything—but they are a total nuisance!

Did I mention they freak me out? Like my eyes!

My toenails are growing faster than normal, too—and in the same red color. At least they’re hidden in my shoes!

I take one more look in the mirror and can’t help but think I look like a freak.

I dread going in with Mom to WG now, just as much as I do when I have to go in to the lumberyard. I have no idea what torture they’ll put me through today! At least it doesn’t seem like there’s much left they can do to me…

So, I ride in with Mom with a queasy feeling in my stomach. I dread it but walk to Ginny’s lab on my own since Mom has some meeting she has to get to.

 

* * * * *
Ginny
* * * * *
 

Sam walks in and I smile at him.

He certainly looks different with his longish red hair—and his eyes are taking on a distinctive emerald green color, now that the flecks are starting to coalesce. He doesn’t look happy, though.

I say brightly, “Good morning, Sam! It’s a wonderful day, isn’t it?”

He looks at me warily. I guess I can’t blame him. I just smile and say, “OK, then. Let’s get right to it…”

I take blood, then do the measurements after he strips to his…panties? Come to think of it, his clothes do look…feminine.

His hair has grown another full inch, his lashes are twice as thick and nearly doubled in length. His nails are a quarter inch longer and growing in a beautiful red. We need to get them taken care of, so that they look manicured. The same for his toes.

It surprises me he doesn’t say anything about the red—I guess he’s figured out that it won’t do any good. Still—it’s odd. But Lissa does have a unique way of getting her point across—and she rarely fails.

Finally, I check his ears—they’re well-maintained and showing no signs of infection.

I focus on his female clothing as he’s getting dressed again. Overcome with curiosity, I inquire, “Those are nice jeans and I love the top! Cute pink panties and matching girl’s socks… Care to elaborate?”

He sighs and tells me about how soft and sensitive his skin has become—and how Julia took him shopping.

I nod and make a note—it looks like it’s time for him to meet Dharma. With the way he’s been coming along, that doesn’t truly surprise me. That he voluntarily went shopping and is wearing the clothes, though, does. OK, it seems that maybe it wasn’t completely voluntary, and that Julia had a heavy hand in it all, but still…

I make a note in his log, then mentally go back through my checklist. Satisfied, I say, “Well, it looks like everything is in order. You’re two weeks in! So, you should be more or less out of product. Is that right?”

He nods and says, “I probably have enough stuff for tonight—maybe for in the morning.”

I smile and reply, “Well, I’m going to give you new supplies today—although, we may be changing them again very soon. Finish off with the old product tonight—and start these new bottles in the morning. Just rinse out the old bottles really well and bring them back in with you next week. We like to recycle!”

He nods and muses, “I do have one question… The products still give me a nice tingly feeling, although not as strong. I find that I sort of…miss that feeling during the day. I did find that chewing that gum that Joyce gave helped some—but I’m out of that.”

I nod and fight a smile. I’ve been waiting on that to come up.

Finally, I do smile and say, “Well, there are certain ingredients in the products that are designed to be invigorating. It seems they work extremely well on you. That’s great for you! Right?”

He sort of nods and I continue, “Now, we don’t want you to be showering a hundred times a day to get that feeling, so we can add some other products into the mix that release those invigorating ingredients slowly—throughout the day. Would you like that?”

He looks a little dumbfounded and I just say, “There’s no shame in wanting to feel as good as you look, Hon!”

He finally nods with a conflicted look and I say, “OK. I will add deodorant to your list of products. I know you haven’t really hit puberty yet, so you haven’t had a real need for it, yet—but it won’t hurt to use it and get in the habit for when you do need it. You aren’t using any right now, right? I’ve never really asked—and should have.”

He shakes his head and I smile. I hand him a tube of stick deodorant and say, “Here. Just rub this under each arm a couple of times in the mornings. Normally, you will put it on right after your shower if you take that first thing.”

He sticks the tube up his top from the bottom and applies the product. I immediately smell the lilac scent and he gets a funny look on his face.

He complains, “This smells girly! Don’t you have anything el…” Then he gets a smile on his face as the tingling starts. The deodorant contains a highly concentrated dose that will continue slowly releasing for several hours.

I ask mischievously, “You were saying? I’m afraid that’s the only version of the experimental product authorized for your trial. I can take it back—if you really hate it that much!”

He emphatically shakes his head and says, “No! I mean, I can…live with the…smell… It’s not my favorite, at all, but I can deal with it.”

I smile and then pick up a special tube of lip gloss. I hand it to him and say, “Here, try this.”

He gives me a funny look but pulls out the applicator wand and expertly spreads the gloss on his lips without looking. It’s clear he has been heavily using the gloss that Brea gave him, because of the practiced ease he exhibits in applying it.

He purses his lips as I’m sure the intense tingling in his lips is starting. I can already see them starting to plump up. The tingling will spread throughout his face. Anybody he kisses will now get a nice taste of chocolate-covered-strawberry-flavored gloss.

He kind of licks his lips and smiles. He says, “Chocolate! I like that!”

I giggle and add several tubes to his bag with his other products. I have a feeling he will go through the gloss rather quickly. I also give him a large supply of the gum.

I guess Joyce wants him in the habit of chewing it for some reason.

He seems to finally notice the swelling in his lips and exclaims, “Ginny! I think I may be allergic to this! My lips feel like they’re swelling!”

I shake my head and say, “No, Hon! It’s OK. It’s actually supposed to do that. It’s…like the color markers… It lets us know it’s working. Don’t worry about it, OK? You’ll get used to it and not notice it in no time!”

I give him a minute to process that and settle down, before I say, “OK, Sam. Time to go get your week two pictures, then see Joyce for your weekly salon appointment. You’ll also get to see Dharma today, since it seems you’re ready to start dressing in a manner more appropriate to your status as a WunderGirl. We have to make sure you represent WG correctly as an ambassador! Don’t you agree?”

I giggle and just say, “Of course, you do! Why am I even asking?”

He gives me a worried look that I studiously ignore and lead him to the photography studio.

 

* * * * *
Joyce
* * * * *
 

I clap my hands when I see Sam come in after his session with Becky!

He looks darling! His hair is now half-way to his shoulders and ready for the next styling session. And his nails are screaming for some TLC! The bright-red new growth is delicious and matches his lips. I contemplate just painting his nails completely that color but decide it would be a bit too much—for now.

I sit him right down and mist his hair until it’s thoroughly drenched and dripping wet. Then I give him a layered cut that just screams WunderGirl model! I’m sure he’ll think it’s girly. I don’t care! I mean, it is. It’s meant to be and it’s perfect!

After I’m done drying it and touch up plucking his brows, I let him see himself in the mirror. He turns ghastly pale with a twinge of green that compliments his increasingly lovely green eyes. I just ignore his demeanor and enthuse, “You look lovely, Hon!”

Then I take one of his hands and pat it as I say, “Now, we need to take care of these claws!”

I have him lay back in the chair and put a warming gel mask over his eyes. As I encourage him to relax, I inspect his nails and am proud to see that they are healthy and strong—and growing in that lovely shade of red!

I start on his toes. I clip them straight across, leaving the white extended to an eighth of an inch. I file them smooth and buff them, then paint over the new red-colored and old pinkish growth with a hot-bubblegum pink. I add stark white strips on the tips for a French pedicure look, then cure the lacquer under the UV light. I add two coats of high-gloss clear coat and cure each of those with the UV light, as well.

I then start working on his fingernails. I cut them back and file them into more of an oval than a squoval. I keep the white portion to three sixteenths of an inch. Then I give him the same French manicure look as his toes, only with a slightly softer pink. It’s still very bright, but overall less flashy.

I remove the mask from his eyes, so he can see the work. He blinks at the sudden light hitting his eyes, then is finally able to focus on his hands. I smile proudly at my work and then jump way back when I’m seriously afraid he truly is going to throw up.

He screeches, “I can’t have long painted nails! These are girl’s nails! They will kill me at the lumberyard! I mean that literally!”

I give him a stern look and scold him, “Nonsense! You work for WG as a reserve model—a WunderGirl—and you will honor your contract! Now, why would anyone want to kill you for looking good—beautiful, even? Unless they’re jealous? Is that it?”

He just glares at me and I say smugly, “Be glad I didn’t go for something longer. We can go for glamour-length in the beautiful red color they’re growing in next time.”

I let that sink in, then fully shut him down, “As a matter of fact, I think that’s exactly what we’ll do!”

He gives me a blank stare. Obviously, that means nothing to him. I doubt they’ll actually grow enough by next week—even at their accelerated rate—for full glamour-length, like a half-inch. But we can probably eek out over a quarter-inch—maybe close to that half-inch. I may not go fully to that length, but he will learn not to question me!

Besides—he needs to learn to live with glamour nails as a model!

To make my point, I just glare back at him and say, “OK, then! It’s time you meet Dharma.”

 

* * * * *
Dharma
* * * * *
 

I look through the rack of new model clothing that came in with the latest shipment. It’s once again time to do the annual purging of the older stuff and I’ll have to set up another sale. It’s too bad I can’t just give it to the girls around here.

That requires a special dispensation from Greta, though—and I don’t have a good enough reason. The last time was after Emily’s house fire.

I hear the door open and peek around the rack to see Joyce come in with a girl that’s clearly going for a sort of androgynous, or maybe a tomboyish look. She’s not really nailing it.

Then it hits me…

“Hi, Joyce! Is this Sam you’re bringing me?”

She nods and I greet him, “Hi, Sam! I hear you’re branching out on your clothing and need some guidance on meeting WG criteria. I’m sure you wonder about why a cosmetics company cares about how employees—especially models—dress. To include when they are off the job.”

I pause as he nods and looks around at the well-stocked room with a bewildered look on his face. I smile at his overwhelmed reaction and continue, “Well, as models, of course, they’re getting photographed and it’s the whole package—not always just closeups of the makeup.”

I check to see if he’s still paying attention. He seems to be, but is still confused as to why he’s here. I continue, “But even when not actively modeling for the camera—either for cosmetics or when contracted out as professional models—our girls are held to a higher standard. They’re ambassadors for WG at all times—that’s why they’re called WunderGirls.”

I wave at Joyce as she winks at me and then leaves him in my capable hands.

I giggle as I get an awesome idea and say, “Stay right here, Hon! I need to send a quick text. Feel free to browse around!” I send a text to Greta and then turn my attention back to Sam. He’s just standing there looking lost.

I sigh and turn a critical eye to his looks and what he has just won’t do. I get that he wants to stay androgynous, but I’m going to push hard to the feminine. It’s clear that’s what Joyce is doing, too. I’m not sure what Brea is up to with the minimalist makeup, though. She needs to get onboard!

I get out my measuring tape and quickly figure out he’s a girl’s size two. He’ll wear a women’s size six shoe. If and when he needs a bra, his strap size will be a twenty—cup size to be determined.

As I finish adding the measurements to his file, Greta texts back and I smile as I read her response.

I put my phone away and start pulling out clothing that will fit him from my ‘discard’ section. The clothes are perfectly good—most maybe worn only once or twice for a shoot. Once they’ve been in more than a couple of shoots, though, Greta doesn’t want them used anymore for internal purposes. Usually, they’re supplied with clothing when contracted out, and they don’t use our WG clothing.

I have a nice pile of excellent quality size two designer women’s clothing—none of which would ever qualify as androgynous, especially not the skirts and dresses—that are now his, no matter his view on them.

I’m just waiting on…

And right on cue, the door opens and Julia comes in. I greet her as she does a double-take when she sees her son.

I clear my throat and say enthusiastically, “So, Julia. I measured Sam and he’s a size two. Can you believe it? Some people just have an in with the Figure Goddess! Anyway, Greta has agreed to donate this year’s size two discards to Sam! Isn’t that great?!”

I’m not getting the excited reaction I was expecting. It’s more like one of shock, as I continue, “Of course, as compensation for WG’s generosity, he’ll be expected to only wear these—or something equally as good and in the same general style, since this is now his style. Greta has already signed off on it in the books and it’s a fully done deal, so I’ll just have this stuff brought out to your car!”

There is still an awkward dead silence from the two.

I mentally shrug and look around before adding, “Oh! You’ll need to get him some appropriate shoes. I can throw in a couple of pairs that will get him started, but we don’t purge them quite as often. Again, he’ll be expected to wear dressy shoes—or fashionable every day and sports ones—that go with his outfit.”

I need to get some sort of reaction out of them, so I ask, “Any questions?”

She’s still staring at Sam—then kind of hiccups when she looks over at me. She asks in a low, stunned voice, “Questions? Uh… No… I don’t guess, so. But…this?”

I giggle at her stunned answer. At least the generous gesture seems to finally be sinking in.

I explain, “Basically, just think of what’s required of you as a model and apply it to Sam. He has to get into the frame of being a WG ambassador. This…,” I gesture towards him, “…is a decent start, I guess—but we need to go next-level! This is exciting! Don’t you think? I don’t often get Greta to agree to a donation like this! Sam’s so lucky!”

I make a quick decision and say, “Just to kick-start this, let’s get Sam in something nicer right now!”

Sam lets out a surprised hiccup, and Julia lets out a gasp. I choose to interpret that to mean they’re excited!

I pick out a lovely emerald green dress that matches the flecks in his eyes and hand it to him—along with a fresh pack of pantyhose and a pair of red, three-inch stiletto pumps that match his lovely lips.

He just sort of gurgles in response to my question of whether he needs my assistance getting dressed, and Julia steps in, “I’ve got it, Dharma. I think Sam’s just a little overwhelmed at the moment.”

She takes Sam into a dressing room and I hear a lot of animated whispering. I think I may hear some whining, but I’m sure I must be mistaken. That simply couldn’t be the case with that dress! It’s absolutely lovely!

After several long minutes, they finally come out. Sam looks stunning! He just needs to work on his presentation—and practice walking in heels! Well, and he needs a little help up top. We’ll get to that later.

He certainly doesn’t look happy, and Julia looks really conflicted.

I don’t care! I exclaim, “Sam! Love! You look absolutely gorgeous in that dress! You need to hurry over to Brea’s, so she can finish up with you. Then we will need to get you practicing in those heels!”

I watch the two walk out—both stunned. I’m sure this was quite the surprise. I mean, Sam just got handed several thousand dollars’ worth of designer clothing. So that has to be what’s got them all so shocked!

I mean it does lock him even firmer into his contract, but Greta seemed pleased with that.

I send Brea a text, knowing he’s headed there next. Sam looks so beautiful in that dress and with Joyce’s work! Now, she simply needs to level-up, too!

 

* * * * *
Brea
* * * * *
 

I read Dharma’s text and fume! Her and Joyce are now conspiring—and I know I’m over a barrel. Greta will be on their side if it comes down to it.

I sigh as he comes in with Julia and nearly drop the tray of cosmetics I’m holding. I can’t believe this is the same boy I met last week—certainly not the same one that I saw in the baseline pictures. There’s not much sign of ‘boy’ left with him in that dress, to be honest. Just his whole demeanor and his lack of development up top—which I’m sure Dharma will be working on soon enough.

I smile encouragingly at him and don’t make a big deal out of his looks. It’s clear that he’s embarrassed enough as I sit him down at the vanity and refresh his eyes and lip stain. I can tell right away that he’s using a different lip gloss and he explains that it’s from Ginny, so I know it’s authorized.

I just don’t understand why she gave him a plumping one—he now has that signature ‘bee-stung’ look of plumped lips to go along with everything else.

I sigh again and say, “OK, Sam. We need to ramp it up a little this week. I won’t go overboard, though. I promise!”

He nervously nods—totally dejected. Any will to argue seems to be wrung out of him.

I look at him critically and decide that eyeshadow would be OK. I just need to go with a light daytime look.

I use earth tones, including bronze, brown, and emerald green that matches the new color of his eyes to cover his eyelids and blend the colors. It also just happens to go with his dress. Then, I add some color to his eyebrows and give them perfect definition.

Of course, the cosmetics are the same special products as the mascara and lip stain—so this makeup won’t come off either.

His eyelashes are now long and thick, but I still add some special mascara that clumps them with just a hint of a matte greenish-black color and some curl—really making his eyes pop. Like the other products, this will last the week.

I sit back to see how it looks. It’s feminine and adds a couple of years to his looks. He now looks more like a sixteen-year-old girl than the thirteen-to-fourteenish he looked with the simpler style from before.

I resist using foundation and blush to do any contouring—then he would be getting the whole WunderGirl package. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold off on that, though! I’m sure there will be pressure from above before long—no later than when he gets called into active modeling.

To be honest, if this is how he’s going to have to be dressing, anyway, I’m not sure why I’m even bothering holding back—other than it’s the principal of the thing.

I give him a friendly and supportive hug in hopes it will cheer him up. It’s a girly thing to do and it surprises him.

But looking like he is now—I feel like he will need to get used to being treated that way!

 

* * * * *
Julia
* * * * *
 

The day has been nothing, if not a challenge! I know I’m blown away—and I can’t begin to think of how Sam must feel. I look over at him sitting in the car next to me and he reminds much more of what I expect Gemma will look like in a couple of years than my youngest son.

He looks stunning in that dress—and that’s so weird to say. He needs to practice walking in those heels and learn to present like a woman in a dress—and that’s even weirder to say!

My trunk and back seat are packed with thousands of dollars of designer women’s clothing, that he is now contractually required to wear, and so—as weird as it all is to say—there’s no question that it has to happen.

I’m not at all looking forward to getting home and Gary finding out about all of this.

I pull into the garage with a sigh and just start unloading things from the trunk. I wordlessly begin carrying the load of clothing to Sam’s room—like that will help hide it.

And, as predicted, Gary goes ballistic! He raves like a lunatic about how his son is not going to dress like a girl and that this will stop now!

I ignore his outburst and make Chad—who just laughs hysterically when he sees Sam—help us carry the cargo to Sam’s room.

While Chad and I are carrying up the clothing, I make Sam clean out his closet—completely. Well, except for the new jeans and tops that he can wear to the lumberyard and get dirty. Then help him put the designer clothing away and cart his old things to the Goodwill bin.

He complains about it all, but especially when I just put the dresses and skirts in the closet instead of throwing them in the Goodwill bin, too—as he wants. That goes for all of the other ultra-feminine things, as well.

He has to get the message—along with Gary—that the dress he currently has on is not just a one-time fluke.

The same goes for the heels. The three pairs that Dharma gave him are all three and four-inch stiletto heels and nice enough, but I’m going to have to get him some flats—and some sports shoes or dress boots that he can wear to the sawmill.

I resolve myself to seriously speak to Gary—Sam can’t keep going to the sawmill. At least not until he gets out from under the contract! It’s not just a matter of pride anymore—I’m seriously worried about what they may do to him there!

And Greta let me know that the donation of clothes will be tacked onto his contract as a bonus.

I just sigh and separate out the least feminine clothing to one side in the closet—ones that may work better at the mill. Then I make him try on more of the things so that I can get a feel for what all he now has.

I’m not at all surprised when they fit like a glove—Dharma knows her measurements. But I am surprised when he looks darling in all of them—I mean he’s just not supposed to look darling in women’s clothing! But with his hair and makeup the way they are, I don’t see my son anymore. He looks like a grown-up, red-headed version of Gemma—or even scarier, like a younger version of me.

If he had breasts filling out the top of the dress, there would be no boy left to see—only a beautiful teenage girl.

Of course, he really complains when I make him put the shoes back on and practice the rest of the evening. I just ignore it, because I know he’ll need to be able to walk in them anytime he goes in to WG. They’ll be expecting it.

I finally just make him come down and face the music with his Dad and the others. We’re going to have to have another family discussion about this. Everyone needs to understand the reasoning—and the stakes here.

Gary is unrelenting in his opposition and rabid response.

Chad just keeps guffawing every time he looks at Sam—which so doesn’t help.

Gemma basically doesn’t care—she’s just mad that he gets to wear makeup and I still won’t let her. I emphatically remind her that Sam is fifteen and is plenty old enough—and that’s just so weird that I have to even defend him doing it. Of course, Gemma is on the verge of being old enough herself. Gary has been more resistant to it than me.

After about an hour of all of this, I give up and just find out what takeout everyone wants from the Chinese restaurant at the mall.

Of course, Sam’s still in his heels, but now just in nice dress pants and a blouse, when I make him get in the car to go with me and get it. He steadfastly refuses to come inside the mall, though—until I promise him that we’ll stop at the shoe store and get him some flats and boots that he can wear home.

I mean, he won’t like what I have in mind, but he doesn’t know that. And it’s not like I have much choice.