NOTE: This story is also available as an ebook on Kindle!

In a room full of suits, she stood out like a cardinal in a field of heather. Bright, wavy red hair, deep green eyes, athletic rather than simply slender, tall and clearly proud of it. A touch taller than me, she nonetheless had the confidence to add height with three-inch heels. For the meeting that morning, she was wearing a sky-blue jacket over a soft, snow-white blouse, a black pencil skirt, and nude stockings.

“Liz Talbott,” she said, sizing me up with a direct, confident gaze when we were going around the table doing the initial meet-and-greet.

“Cameron Savin,” I responded. And those were the only words we spoke to each other for some time. Cavendish, Edwards and Gunn had sent three lawyers to Pittsburgh for this meeting, and I was by a very long stretch the most junior. At a meeting that included the General Counsel and a Senior Vice President for a national telecom company, an attorney only six months out of law school should be seen and not heard.

Cavendish, Edwards was representing the company in an antitrust suit pending in federal district court in D.C. The case had been filed well before I joined the firm and a great deal of work had already been done. I was tasked with pulling together materials that would be used for the Senior VP’s trial testimony, as well as the deposition that he would need to give in advance of trial.

I was surprised and pleased to learn that Liz would be my liaison at the company. I was far too junior to be talking with a Senior VP, and anyway, a whole lot of staff work had to be done before it was worth taking up any of his time. So at the end of the meeting, Liz and I exchanged contact information and a few more words. None of consequence.

I didn’t resolve to keep things professional only because it wouldn’t have occurred to me to do anything else. Liz gave the term “out of my league” new meaning. She might as well have been the Duchess of Cambridge. I had dated girls, but this was a woman – and one that had her shit together.

Liz and I met frequently and had other remote meetings to pull together the information that the VP would need to make his testimony compelling. My job, knowing the contours of the case and the legal elements of the claim that we would need to prove, was to take the information that Liz assembled and create a narrative that tied everything together. Integrating disparate pieces of information into a coherent whole is pretty much what I do best, so it was a good assignment for me.

Liz always listened carefully to my questions and made sure that I thoroughly understood her answers. She also knew what she didn’t know and never tried to bluff or guess. When she needed to get information from elsewhere in the company, she knew where to go and tended to get the information quickly.

The testimony took shape, and I was able to provide the senior associate and the partner with outlines and rough drafts earlier than they expected.

Liz was surprisingly friendly, and in the course of some long days she would break the tension by telling some stories from work or commenting on things in the newspaper. I enjoyed those informal times, but assumed that she was just being collegial.

While we were still working on testimony, the senior partner on the case got a feeler from opposing counsel suggesting that the other side might be amenable to settling the case without trial. After some back and forth, the parties agreed on a mediator and set a date for a three-day session. This was to include a bit of “show and tell,” giving a preview of each side’s view of the evidence.

With my knowledge of the key testimony from the Senior VP, I was able to help prepare the presentation for our side (which was, of course, given by the partner). The VP, the General Counsel and Liz all came to DC for the mediation, along with a few other corporate types that I didn’t know. It was occasionally contentious, but the parties were both eager to avoid a risky and cost-prohibitive trial and we reached an agreement in principle in just a day and a half.

The firm hosted the celebratory dinner at the Old Ebbitt for our side (and why not? We made a crapload of money from the case)! Liz came and sat next to me for the entire dinner, which surprised me. Everyone but me had a lot to drink – I’m really not fond of being drunk, so I tend to be careful – and Liz and I had a good time making quiet comments poking fun at the senior folks who were giving fulsome congratulatory toasts.

With the case over, we were finally able to relax and just be people for a change. And, surprisingly, Liz seemed to enjoy hanging out with me as a person. By the end of the evening, I surprised myself by inviting her to lunch. “What’s your plan for tomorrow? Heading back to Pittsburgh first thing?”

She hesitated, but only for an instant. “Nope; my flight’s not ’till 6:45 in the evening. We all figured the mediation would take all three days.”

“Do you have any lunch plans, then? Can I talk you into joining me?” I hope I don't look or sound as nervous as I feel! I can usually count on my face to show only what I want to reveal, but this was an extreme case.

She smiled easily. “I have absolutely no obligations tomorrow, and I’d love to join you. What did you have in mind?”

Oh. My. God! I can’t believe it! I thought. “DC's a great place for ethnic food – ExPat communities from all over the world here. What kind of food do you like?”

“Fantastic! I love trying different things, so long as I don’t have to make them!”

“Hmmmm. Spicy, or not?” I asked.

“I’ll eat anything, but given the option I usually go with spicy,” she replied.

I thought for a moment. Even with the long hours I usually put in, I’d been exposed to lots of options, just within walking distance of my Adams Morgan apartment. “Ever try Ethiopian?”

She grinned. “Not yet – and I’m counting on you to fix that!”

We had a date!

I was unusually thoughtful as I sat in the conference room that fall morning. Mostly, I was thinking, No good deed goes unpunished. Shortly after I joined EverComm three years ago, I had volunteered to help a couple of my senior colleagues who were struggling with a complicated marketing study. Neither of them were with the company any more, so when the marketing study turned out to be relevant to some lawsuit we were pursuing, I was tasked with helping out lawyers.

Sal Peroni, a Senior VP and one of my mentors, was at the head of the table. Daniel Cosgrove, the General Counsel, along with my buddy Tim Jackson, were there from legal. Someone from Finance – an older man with a disapproving face whose name I didn’t catch – rounded out our team.

When the lawyers from the D.C. law firm we’d hired trooped in, I suppressed a sigh. Eight people in the conference room, and once again I was the only woman. It was 2018; you’d think that the times might have gotten around to changing.

But it’s not an uncommon circumstance and I’m not the type to bitch about it. Our group had gotten up and everyone was shaking hands, so I sized up the new arrivals and tried to remember names.

As the meeting progressed, I discovered I would be working with the junior member of the litigation team, who had introduced himself as Cameron Savin. Lean build, intense blue eyes. Maybe a touch shorter than me, though it was hard to tell since I was wearing power heels for the meeting. His demeanor was as composed and buttoned-down as his suit, but he wore his hair in a low, tight pony tail and had a single gold hoop in his left ear. An interesting combination.

I was worried he would overcompensate for his youth – I probably had five or six years on him – by being assertive or bossy. But I was pleasantly surprised to find him very easy to work with. He didn’t pretend to know more than me about marketing or the workings of the telecom industry. He asked lots of good questions, listened carefully to my answers, and then followed up with more questions that demonstrated that he was absorbing what I was telling him.

I appreciated that he was professional and respectful, deferring to my expertise but understanding – as I did not – how the testimony we were working on fit with the rest of the evidence the trial team was putting together. It was a true partnership, and I found it exhilarating to be appreciated for my smarts and my expertise.

I hadn’t expected to become attracted to him. My divorce back in 2015 had soured me on romantic entanglements. Although I went on dates from time to time, all I was really looking for was the occasional one-night stand. I knew where to find men who weren’t looking for more than that – they aren’t all that hard to find – and that was more than enough.

That wouldn’t do with Cam, and besides, I would never date anyone I was working with. So I told myself firmly that we were both professionals and behaved accordingly. Cam made no move; he never even introduced non-work related subjects during our discussions. On the other hand, he wasn’t stand-offish, and charmed me on the occasions when our conversations turned to other matters.

The case surprisingly settled while we were still finalizing the VP’s proposed testimony. Everyone was in D.C. for the mediation. After the settlement was reached, the whole litigation team went off to a restaurant for dinner and stayed until late in the evening. It was a happy crowd – the company was happy with the settlement, the VP was happy that he didn’t have to testify, and the lawyers were happy that their clients were happy. The wine flowed and everyone relaxed after a lot of long, intense, and stressful work.

I made a point of sitting next to Cam and enjoyed the evening. We shared a bit about our backgrounds – where we were from, where we were living, but nothing too personal.

As the party was breaking up, Cam asked if I was free for lunch the next day, or whether I was heading back to Pittsburgh early.

I found myself acutely aware of two things. First, as a result of the settlement, we wouldn’t be working together any more. And, second, he did not wear a ring.

Not without some trepidation, I agreed to join him for lunch.

Being Cam, he asked about my favorite types of foods, and upon learning that I was adventurous and liked things that were both different and spicy, suggested that we meet at an Ethiopian restaurant he liked.

Lunch was great. Really great. We stayed for almost three hours, sitting on low stools, tearing off pieces of spongy bread to pick up different stews, laughing and talking about everything and nothing. We shared a bottle of wine – a thin, dry red that paired well with the food. He said he didn't drink during the work day but was taking the afternoon off. Apparently the firm didn’t care exactly when he worked, so long as he billed plenty of hours and got the job done.

By the end of the lunch he pretty much had my whole life’s story. He’s very good at getting people to open up. There’s just something about his deep blue eyes, I thought. When he looked at me, quietly taking in the story of my life, I felt like I was understood, not judged.

“But what about you?” I asked. “You’ve had me babbling forever.”

“Not much to tell, really. Born and raised in St. Louis. The youngest of three. My sister Fiona’s the brainy one; she's a doctor in Boston. Just got engaged, too, so she’s got her act together. My brother Iain’s a starving artist in New York. By comparison, I’m just a geeky guy who went straight from high school to Washington University, from there straight to the University of Chicago for law school and from law school straight to Cavendish, Edwards.”

“That’s a pretty short summary!” I chided when he stopped. “Birth order and education. Surely there’s more?”

“Well, work has been pretty all-consuming since I got here.” He looked embarrassed.

“Like any sports? Hobbies? Interests? Good cookie recipes?

He smiled. “Baseball, if the Cardinals are in the hunt, which – just sayin’ – they almost always are. I used to play chess, but it’s been a while. I’m interested in politics – majored in PoliSci back in college. I like lots of different music, but I can’t play any instruments. Uhhh . . . cookies? No. Almost positive I don’t have a baking sheet. Wouldn’t know what to do with it if I did.”

But all of that was said in a lighthearted way and with an easy manner that suggested he was comfortable in his skin. We talked more and, while he almost never said anything about himself unless asked directly, when I got him talking about things he was interested in, he was animated, engaged, smart and funny.

I felt something stirring . . . something I hadn’t felt in forever. Something that, frankly, scared me. Scar tissue from ten years of marriage that had ended in complete failure.

I married Jack Trainor when I was eighteen and a day. In those days I went by BethAnn, and was the Empress of my little pond – a popular head cheerleader, getting ready for graduation. Jack was a twenty-three-year old Marine Corps Lieutenant: six foot two, powerfully built, buzz cut, square jaw, barrel chest. A living, breathing recruiting poster for the Green Machine.

But I got tired of his domineering ways, his arrogant assumption that I would want to do whatever he wanted to do without any need to even have a discussion. He had resisted mightily when, at twenty-three, I decided to go back to school. I went to my graduation from George Mason alone. Even though I received highest honors, Jack adamantly refused to let me get a job.

It came to a head two years later, when he discovered that the little wifey wasn’t popping out babies because she was on the pill, and had earned a masters degree through a correspondence course in the ample time each day that he was down at Quantico doing Marine things and hanging with his buddies. Which is how, at 29, I found myself back in Pittsburgh, starting a new life.

Did I really want to get involved in another romantic relationship? Really?

But in fairness, Cam was about as different from my ex-husband as one could imagine, physically, emotionally, and intellectually. That was probably why I was attracted to him in the first place.

So I swallowed my fears and invited Cam to visit me in Pittsburgh. I wasn’t sure what I felt, but . . . I wanted to see whether there was something there. “Come on out,” I urged. “There’s lots of trouble to get into in Pittsburgh, and I can put you up in my guest bedroom. It’ll be fun!”

“I don’t suppose you like baseball?” he asked, with a sort of wistful note in his voice. “I’d love to see a live game at PNC Park!”

“Sure, I like baseball,” I said, smiling. “Though the Pirates are likely to struggle this season. Which I only say because they always do.”

I do like baseball – well enough, anyhow. It’s just as well that I’m not as much of a fan as Cam is, though, or I would never have been able to bring myself to date a Cardinals fan. My dad, as faithful a supporter of the Bucs as you are likely to find in the whole of the Iron City, didn’t need to know.

Lunch was incredible. Liz had never tried Ethiopian food before, and so we had great fun with the unusual seats and eating off of the sponge-like injera flatbread. We talked and talked. I don’t know how long we stayed there. Since my schedule had been cleared for the mediation, I didn’t have a lot of worries about taking the afternoon off. The other side was supposed to do the initial draft of the formal settlement agreement, so we had some time to wait.

Liz must have done her homework before coming to lunch, because she dressed sensibly in dark slacks that made the most of her long legs without making it hard to get into and out of the low seats in the restaurant. She wore a russet-colored crew-necked blouse that showed off her fine collar bones and emphasized her long neck without showing any cleavage. The autumn colors blended with her fiery hair rather than contrasting with it, as the colors she wore more often tended to do.

I was enchanted by the way she moved, the way she showed her brilliant teeth when she smiled, by the sparkle in her jewel-green eyes. I couldn’t believe it: Liz Talbott, the Liz Talbott, was having lunch with me, nerd boy, and apparently enjoying the experience.

It was almost like an out-of-body experience. As a kid and an adolescent, I was undersized and unathletic, so I overcompensated by hyper-focusing on being smart, which was the one thing I was naturally good at. I never dated much. I had one relationship that lasted half a year when I was in college, but we both kind of lost interest. A couple of other “relationships” ended before they even got off the ground. In law school I had lots of friends who were female, but no girlfriends.

So imagine my shock when Liz invited me to come to Pittsburgh to visit her. Only my poker face saved me from completely humiliating myself. We set a date for three weeks later.

~o~O~o~

I was on cloud nine every day of the three weeks from our lunch to the Pittsburgh trip. How could this woman – this beautiful, intelligent, experienced, put-together woman – want anything to do with me? I couldn’t wait to get on the plane.

She picked me up at the airport early Saturday morning? “Hey, Cam!” She waved to draw my attention as I exited security.

“As if anyone wouldn’t spot you in a crowd,” I said as I came up, matching her smile of greeting.

“Yeah,” she laughed. “Endowed by nature with a big red flag!”

“Uh huh,” I said. “That, too!”

She was dressed in active wear suitable for a mild spring day: black nylon tights and a lime-green hoodie. Her hair was pulled back away from her face, which just made her devil-may-care grin pop even more.

The first order of business was to rent a bike for me to use for the day. Her car had a rack that supported two bikes and she had hers with her.

We spent a few enjoyable hours cycling and working up a sweat. Then we went back to her house. She had very modern tastes – everything showed clean lines and the art on the walls was abstract and colorful.

I rode my bicycle a lot when I was growing up, but it had been a lot of years since I was in the saddle so I was feeling pretty sore. Before I knew it, Liz was giving me a gentle massage on my neck and shoulders. I put my head down on her dining room table and thought about where I was and what was happening.

This woman had a life, if you understand what I mean. She had a car, a house with a guest bedroom, a defined decorating style . . . . I was barely out of law school. I lived in a one-bedroom apartment furnished with a few pieces of rented furniture, and I had never even given the least thought to putting anything on the walls. I was going to date her?

Who do I think I am?

But I put my self-doubt aside. The question was, who does Liz think I am? And, can I be that person? So, I pulled myself out of the chair and gave her a reciprocal neck and shoulder rub.

When she got up, she turned to look at me, separated by mere inches. I wanted to cup her cheek in my hand and kiss her full lips. But my self-doubt was too great. I couldn’t believe that’s what she wanted, so I asked first, which was clearly a mistake.

But she let me.

And suddenly, I felt like a king, like a rock star, like a god on earth. I wanted to be everything this woman could ever want, anything she needed.

The next day we went to see the Cincinnati Reds defeat the Pittsburgh Pirates, but the Bucs reversed the script and won a close game. I didn’t have a dog in the fight – the Cardinals weren’t playing a weekend game at PNC until September – but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. I was with Liz.

We had a picnic after the game. Naturally, Liz had the perfect picnic basket and assorted accouterments, and we sat on a comfy checkered blanket under poofy white clouds and enjoyed each other’s company. Before long, we were cuddled together kissing. It got pretty heavy. I’ll admit that I was concerned that my erection would be noticed.

But I stamped down on my raging hormones. I wasn’t looking for a fling, or anything that would be over and done in a hurry. I wanted Liz in my life. “We should take it slow,” I told her. “I don’t want to rush and give you regrets.”

She told me that was sweet, and agreed.

On the first day of Cam’s visit we rented a bike for him and I took him on one of my favorite rides, the North Shore River Trail. About an hour of the ride goes right along the Allegheny and Ohio Rivers, with great views of the Three Sisters Bridge, the Carnegie Science Center, and PNC Park. Taking the full loop we also went through Riverview Park. I’m a Pittsburgh girl and proud of it, and I love to show off my city.

After several hours’ riding we were hot, sore, dirty and happy. Back at my place, I got us some Gatorades and I gave Cam a neck and shoulder massage. He put his head down and groaned with pleasure.

After five minutes or so, he got up and gestured to the chair. “Your turn.” He gave as good as he got, or better. His long, tapered fingers were adept at finding the knots in my muscles and working them out.

I stood and faced him, intending to say thanks, and was captured by those blue eyes.

He held me in his gaze for a long moment. “Can I kiss you?”

That’s taking care and respect too far! “Don’t ask. Just do it!”

We did, and it was sweet. Very sweet. But we left it there. He slept in the guest bedroom and I went to my own, feeling hopeful. Something was definitely stirring, and I felt my fears receding.

We caught the third game of a four-game series between the Pirates and the Reds the next day. To the surprise of me, Cam, and ninety percent of the people in the ballpark, the Bucs got to hoist the Jolly Roger for the third night in a row, creating quite the festive mood among their long-suffering fans. Afterward, we went out for a picnic. This proved to be an opportunity for considerably more kissing, and damn, it felt good.

The period of my romance with Jack hadn’t extended long into our marriage and the kissing that’s involved in my occasional sexual forays doesn’t involve a lot of romance. In fact, my goal during those sessions is best described as, bam, purr, thank you, sir. So it had been a very long time since I felt that heady, crazy, intoxication of new love.

But at the end of the day, Cam said he didn’t want to rush on to sex, because he was looking for something lasting. He suggested that we take it slow and see where it went.

I agreed . . . and didn’t. I wasn’t eager to dash into a relationship either, but my body wanted what it wanted. That night, I had to be satisfied with my little mechanical friend – a toy I had purchased well into my marriage, and which kept me sane many times since.

Taking it slow only lasted until the very next time I came up to Pittsburgh, two weeks later. We had come back from a run and took showers (yeah, her house had more than one bathroom). I came out toweling my hair, wearing a T-Shirt and shorts.

She came out a few minutes later, her flaming hair blown dry, eyes shining, wearing a long night shirt in some satiny fabric.

I got up, wrapped her in my arms, and gave her a deep, lingering kiss.

When we finally broke the kiss, she looked at me with her straight gaze. “Time’s up, bucko. In the sack – NOW!” And there we went.

Undressed, Liz was a marvel. As a result of her many outdoor activities, she was firm, lean, and well-muscled. Her breasts were perfect orbs with silky smooth skin, neither too large nor too small; soft and sensitive to the touch. Her long legs wrapped around mine, her hair floated above me, and before I knew it she had straddled my aching member and we were moving together as our hands and mouths reached, touched, and explored. How long did I last? Damned if I know; I was in heaven, and heaven is forever.

We slept.

This was the beginning of my time in paradise. We saw each other every couple of weeks. Mostly I went out to Pittsburgh, where we spent time with her friends most days and had alone time at night.

Her friends were all from her office. They had great stories and made me feel incredibly welcome. I think that they were very happy that Liz was dating after being single for so long. All of them were older than me – I think Fernando was the oldest; close to forty – while Janet, who was thirty, was probably the closest to my age. Tish, who was dating Fernando, was Liz’s age (32), and I think Tim Jackson, the lawyer, was a year or two older than that. But I worked hard to fit in, and I think I was reasonably successful at it.

I had never been into sports, but fortunately the activities that Liz enjoyed were all ones that did not require the sort of close coordination and muscle mass that kept me on the sidelines in school. I can hike, bike, and kayak for long distances, and even running was something that I could do without much difficulty. In fact, I was surprised and delighted to discover what I had been missing. I enjoyed being outdoors and engaging in physical activities.

I was simply giddy with happiness. A stunning, smart, experienced woman wanted me – ME! Every time she called, I was overjoyed. I wrote her silly notes. I sent her small presents. I couldn’t wait for the next time that I would see her, kiss her, enjoy the sight of her tight, round ass as she ran ahead of me during our morning runs. To feel her eyes on me; to hear her laugh. To come to her bed and make love to her.

I was in love, and didn’t hesitate to tell her so.

She was reluctant to say anything. “Look, I don’t know what love is. Not for sure. I thought I was in love before, but I really wasn’t. I was in love with being in love. But Cam, it’s not the same thing. I don’t want to get too far ahead. Let’s enjoy what we have for now. No commitments.”

I agreed, of course, even though I had no doubts at all where my own feelings were concerned.

I got Cam into my bed the very next time he came to see me. We’d had a good run, the endorphins were pumping out happy juice, and when I saw him after a shower my body said, “Now!”

He was more than willing. He was eager, and caring . . . but very inexperienced. Not a virgin, but pretty close. I took the lead and that helped, but on the whole the experience was a bit disappointing.

I wasn’t too worried, though. Practice is the sovereign remedy for inexperience. So I kept my disappointment to myself.

Cam and I continued to see each other every few weekends or so for the next few months. I flew to D.C. a couple of times, but more often he came out to Pittsburgh, either flying or driving. He had a pretty small apartment in D.C. and hadn’t really explored the city much. In Pittsburgh, we were able to join my work crew for long hikes, camping and kayaking.

We had a lot of fun. He liked my friends; they liked him. He proved to have a wicked sense of humor and he and Fernando could be the life of any party when they were together.

My crew wasn’t much into cycling or running, but Cam and I did those activities together on our own. We explored the Panhandle Trail, the Montour Trail, and the one I knew best, Butler-Freeport Community Trail, giving Cam some appreciation for the area. There are things that you see when you are running or cycling that you never catch when you’re whizzing along in a car, and the rugged hills and wild rivers of Western Pennsylvania are special.

We walked around the city, hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm. Went shopping. Explored restaurants and the food scene. I loved his attention and the care with which he treated my feelings. He always made me feel like I was the most important person in the world.

But the sex didn’t get better; in fact, I was finding myself getting dry while we were making love. That had never happened to me before, leaving me confused and frustrated. Here he was, seemingly the perfect guy, Mr. Right. Everything my husband had failed to be.

I couldn’t figure out what the problem was. I hadn’t become frigid; my occasional one-night stands had always satisfied me sexually. But however much I cared for Cam, respected him, felt somehow drawn to him, in the bedroom there was just no spark. The more I wanted it, the harder I tried, the worse it got.

In desperation, I invited my friend Tish over for dinner and opened up about my tangle of feelings and frustrations. It’s not something I’m at all accustomed to doing, and it made me acutely uncomfortable.

She was sympathetic. “So . . . trouble in paradise? I’m so sorry, Liz. I really thought he might be the one.”
“The worst of it is, I did too!” I said.
She asked some pointed questions about what things I had tried to improve my response to our love-making. The sorts of questions that make me very uncomfortable.
“We tried lots of different things. He is always game for adding romance – a little mental and emotional foreplay. We tried different positions," I said. “And, look . . . Cam and I both have pretty whitebread upbringings. I’ve got a lot more experience, obviously, but . . . we’ve tried things I never did with Jack – or with anyone else. Nothing works. I don’t know what’s wrong!”
“I hate to ask, but . . . he’s okay, physically?”

I shrugged. “Yes. I mean, he’s not deformed or anything. A bit . . . I don’t know . . . delicate. But he’s fully functional, if that’s what you mean.”

Truth is, Cam was on the small side. And maybe that was part of the problem. But that explanation didn’t feel right. Or, at least, sufficient.

She leaned back in her chair, holding her water glass in both hands and giving me a measuring look. “I guess you have to decide how important the sex is for you, Liz.”

“How important?” It seemed like a strange question to me.

She shook her head. “Sex is super important for a lot of people. Maybe most, I don’t know. For other people, it’s kind of nice to have, but other things matter more. If you really like Cam, but he doesn’t do it for you in bed, will that still be okay for you?”

I thought about it. Hard. Do I really need good sex? I thought about how much I enjoyed Cam’s company. Thought what a truly wonderful guy – a wonderful human being – he is. Isn’t that enough?

Finally, I met Tish’s eyes. “No,” I said, sadly. “It would be at first . . . but not for the long term.”

“Do you need to think about the long term?” she asked, practically.

But this question was much easier. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. Not for me. I mean, I’m the queen of flings, right? But . . . that’s not Cam. He only plays for keeps.”

She put down her glass, reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Liz, you’ve got to stop beating yourself up over this. It’s not Cam’s fault that you are sexually incompatible, and it’s not your fault. And if that matters for either of you, it matters. That’s not your fault either.”

Tish has a really bad habit of being right.

But I was still torn. I didn’t want to throw away something that had seemed to be so good, but I didn’t want to deceive myself or Cam.

So I told Cam at the end of a weekend that I wasn’t sure this was working for me and I needed some time to think about it.

Cam got very still, his blue eyes very focused on mine. Finally, he said, “Liz, you know that I love you. Take all the time you need. I will be here when you are ready to talk, or ready to decide.”

He flew home.

I spent the next few weeks thinking about it, but my mind didn’t change. He’s a lovely person, but Cam is just not the man that I need in the bedroom, and he never will be.

I needed to find a way to tell him, and it didn’t feel right doing it over the phone. It was too cheap, too callous. He hadn’t hesitated to tell me his feelings, and even if I couldn’t share them – or at least, share them fully – I respected them. I wanted him to know, to understand, that I really did care about him. Even though we couldn’t be a couple.

I invited him up for one more weekend; the gang has a camping night planned with some hiking and rock climbing. I would tell him at the end of the weekend.

I knew I had to. But damn, it will be hard.

~o~O~o~

When Liz sat me down and told me that she needed time to think about our relationship, I assumed the worst. I’d heard the “needing time” line before. But I had never been in a relationship like this before, so I didn’t want to just assume that Liz was attempting to push me away without having to say anything directly. Besides, that’s just not who Liz is.

I did what I had to do: I told her that I loved her and that meant that I would give her as long as she needed. We slept apart that night, and I returned to D.C. the next day with a heavy heart.

I spent the next few weeks like a guilty man awaiting a judge’s sentence. I not only feared the worst, I expected it and in some measure even believed that I deserved it. Liz would not be having doubts, if she felt the same way that I did. So, somehow, I had failed.

I worked hard to steal myself for what I was almost certain was coming. I had ample experience with smart, pretty girls who said they loved me, but weren’t in love with me, "if you know what I mean.”

I knew what that meant, for sure.

I also understood that there’s no point in a relationship where the attraction isn’t mutual. So I had plenty of practice accepting rejection with understanding and, where needed, a bit of self-deprecating humor.

But I wasn’t sure all that experience would be enough, this time. Liz was too special. Too important. And the fact that I was keeping any hope alive kept me from hardening my heart and strengthening my defenses.

After what felt like an interminable time in purgatory, Liz called to invite me to a camping weekend with her work gang. So I pulled together some camping gear and flew to Pittsburgh.

Liz was distant from the start of the weekend. Whatever hope I had faded fast.

The hike into the campground was strenuous and everyone arrived hot, sticky and tired out. By the time we put up the tents and ate a quick dinner, we were all ready to turn in. Liz and I shared a tent, but not a sleeping bag, and we were too close to the other tents to have a private conversation.

Liz simply said, “Goodnight, Cam,” then rolled over and went to sleep.

I lay awake deep into the night, trying to figure out where I had gone wrong and whether there was anything I could do – anything at all – that might salvage the situation. Long after midnight I drifted off into a fitful sleep, only to be awakened a short time later by the sounds of scratching outside the tent.

In the moonlight, I could see the shadow of something small moving along the outside of the tent, about the size of a large, but short, cat. I made a movement of some kind, I think, and the animal stopped, turned, and froze. In an instant, the air was filled with the indelible smell of skunk.

That woke Liz as well. We quickly left the tent, only to discover that the skunk had sprayed not only the tent, but the open packs that we had left under the rain flap. Everything we had with us was permeated with skunk smell. We had to move the tent by moonlight to spare the rest of our group, but there was no sleep for either of us for what little remained of the night.

Liz and I took off down the trail at first light so that our colleagues could eat their breakfast in peace. We made much better time going downhill, and once we got to the car we dumped all of our gear in the back and drove home with every window open.

My plan for the weekend had been a complete bust. I couldn’t give Cam the ax up-front or the weekend would be ruined. But I couldn’t act like there was nothing wrong between us. Always sensitive to my moods, Cam knew immediately what was coming and retreated into his head. Pulling him out again would lead to a discussion I wasn’t ready to have, so I allowed the silence to stretch.

The hike was far more strenuous than any of us thought it was going to be, and Tish in particular was struggling by the end of it. For the last mile or so, Cam kindly volunteered to take her pack and Fernando helped her get to the camp. There was barely time to set up the tents and eat before it was dark, and I had to face sharing a small tent with the guy I was going to dump the next day.

All things considered, my effort to spare Cam had not been well planned. I should have just flown out to DC and met him on his home ground without anyone else around. Coulda. Shoulda. Woulda.

I avoided the situation by crawling into my sleeping bag and pretending to go to sleep right away. I fully expected a bad night, but after the stress I had been under leading up to the weekend, the realization that I was going to relieve the pressure tomorrow, and the strenuous hiking, I actually fell asleep quickly.

That was a good thing, because I woke up much later to the smell of a skunk doing its thing right outside our tent and on top of all of our things. Cam and I dashed out of the tent, pulled up the stakes and moved it fifty yards away in the hopes that the others could sleep. But there was no sleeping for Cam and me. The tent stank, we stank, and all of our clothes stank. Fortunately, there wasn’t much night left.

In light of how badly we reeked, when Janet emerged from her tent at dawn we told her we were going to head home early and asked her to make our apologies to the others. We got home in the evening, stopping only to buy gas and tomato juice from a teenage clerk who actually held his nose.

We made a bee-line for the washing machine in my master bedroom suite. Everything had to come off, and we dropped it all in the wash with a hefty dose of soap and some deodorizer I had left over from the time I took care of a neighbor’s dog. I zipped into my shower and was about done when the hot water started to run out. I shut down the water, dried off, and then slipped on a nightdress.

Then it hit me that Cam had nothing to wear. I didn’t want to have this discussion with him bare-ass naked or wrapped in a towel. So I grabbed the least overtly-feminine robe in my closet and slipped it into the bathroom where Cam was still showering. I went back into my bathroom to dry off my hair.

When the bell on the laundry rang, I pulled my clothes from the dryer and put our hiking clothes in, smelling to see whether the wash had done its work. I threw in three dryer sheets to help the deodorizing process. Intending to fold my laundry, I grabbed the basket and went toward the living room.

When I opened the door, I saw Cam sitting on a small chair by the gas fire that I had turned on when we came in, rhythmically brushing out his hair. Because the robe left his legs exposed practically to his crotch, he had his knees together.

I was suddenly struck by how very feminine he looked, with his long, mostly hairless legs modestly together, in a short lady’s robe, stroking his long dark hair with my hairbrush. His blue eyes were distant, and his rapidly drying hair, loose from his normal ponytail, settled in dark waves around his oval face.

When he became aware of me, Cam attempted to stand up, but this brought a fresh crisis. He got an erection and the short white robe couldn’t cover it. He blushed like a girl and seemed at a complete loss for words.

Inspired by my fresh insight, I grabbed a pair of panties from my laundry basket and tossed them to him. He looked even more embarrassed, if that were possible, but put them on without any protest.

I waved him back to his seat, put down my basket, and sat across from him to give him the horrible little speech I had been preparing for days in advance.

What to say? To someone older or more experienced than Cam, it would be simple enough. Some variation of, “Sorry, it’s not working for me.” But Cam is clearly head-over-heels in the throes of feelings that he has never experienced before. How can I be kind, but still definitive?

“Cam, we need to talk. I’m not going to beat around the bush. You are a wonderful guy. I enjoy spending time with you. But . . . I just don’t think we are sexually compatible. And without that, I think we have to stop seeing each other romantically. I don’t know whether you’ll want to remain friends. We don’t need to decide that today. . . .”

His distant expression transformed into complete misery – desolation. “Oh, God, no!” His voice was husky with pain.

“I’m so very sorry. I wanted it to work out. I really did,” I said, trying to salve the hurt I was inflicting on him.

“Please don’t, Liz. I . . . I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. I’ll do anything . . . .” He began to weep.

I was uncomfortable. I knew he would be devastated, but still! “Cam, we’ve tried. It’s not like there’s some annoying personal habit that you can just fix.”

“But surely there’s something I can do – anything!” To my embarrassment and horror, he slipped off the chair and went down on his knees. “Please, Liz! Please give me another chance!”

“Cam, get up!” I tried again. Surely Cam, who had always listened, always been sensitive to my feelings and needs, would listen and understand. But my words suddenly couldn’t penetrate.

The culmination of all of the stress of the bad weekend, and of Cam’s inexplicable behavior, caused me to lose it. “Okay, look, I tried doing this the easy way. You are forcing me to say things I didn’t want to say. You can’t be my man, Cam. You don’t satisfy me. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to say it, but you forced me to. You forced me!”

He looked like he’d been punched. But even that wasn’t enough. “I can learn! I can! I’m begging you – teach me how to satisfy you!”

I couldn’t believe it. I just looked at him, kneeling before me in my short bathrobe, wearing my panties, crying his eyes out. I looked, and I looked again, and suddenly an idea came to me from out of nowhere. It felt, strange, alien. Dark.

“Fine, Cam,” I said angrily. I lifted up my nightdress. “Eat me.”

~o~O~o~

We got back to Liz’s house around six o’clock that night. We took everything out of the car, stripped everything we were wearing, threw it in the wash and dashed to the showers. I was showering when the hot water ran out, but I still stank so I gritted my teeth and kept at it with tomato juice and the harshest soap Liz had in the house.

Liz, always considerate, had apparently popped in during my shower and left me a robe to wear while our clothes were drying. It was white cotton with a kind of quilted pattern; utilitarian but very short – a style Liz no doubt favored because she knows that her legs look great. I was a bit embarrassed, but Liz and I were clearly not at a stage in our relationship where she was comfortable having me wander around her house nude.

I put it on. It didn’t cover all that much, but it did manage – barely – to hide the essentials. I couldn’t find my comb, which must have been lost in the hurried trek back from camp. So I asked Liz through her bathroom door if I could borrow one.

She stuck out an arm and handed me a brush with a quick apology – it’s all she had. So I sat down by the gas fire and started brushing out my hair while I waited for her to finish what she was doing and come out.

Eventually I looked up to see her in the doorway to her room. She had a basket of clothes on her hip that she had pulled from the dryer to make room for our load of wash, and she was wearing a long, straight sleeveless cotton nightdress in a medium blue that hugged her perfect breasts and flared out beneath them.

I stood up to meet her and, to my extreme embarrassment, I really stood up. My erection pushed up the bottom of the short robe I was wearing and exposed me. I’m sure I turned flame red. Not that Liz hadn’t seen me hard before, but . . . this was not the moment.

Her eyes quirked at the sight, then she reached into her basket and tossed me a pair of underwear. Hers, of course; mine were still drying.

I was even more embarrassed, but realized that it was better to put them on and cover up than to leave myself visibly standing at attention while she pronounced my fate. I slipped them on. Nothing fancy or over-the top, just white nylon panties that held my disobedient member in place.

She waved me back to my seat by the fire and lowered the boom.

I thought that I had prepared myself, but when the moment came, I knew that I had been kidding myself completely. I felt like a gigantic hole had been ripped out of my heart. Unbidden, tears began to flow down my face. I can’t to this day remember the last time I had cried. I was suddenly in anguish, a complete wreck.

I had wanted to go out with dignity, to make it as easy on Liz as I could. She had taken a chance on me and I had failed; I didn’t want to make things any worse. But I couldn’t bring myself to do what I had done so often before: tell her I understood and walk away.

Unreasonably, crazily, overwhelmingly, I felt the need to fight, to plead, for the relationship that was over. I found myself on my knees before her, all dignity gone, begging for another chance, asking that she just tell me what was wrong so I could change.

This was, clearly, not the response that Liz had hoped for, nor was it the one she expected. She tried to stop me. Told me it wasn’t my fault and it wasn’t something I could “fix.”

But I wouldn’t just accept that, and kept at her. I was desperate, and desperation isn’t pretty. It’s not noble, and it’s sure as hell not attractive or sexy.

Liz started to get frustrated, then angry, and finally told me that I didn’t satisfy her in bed.

I was hurt, shocked. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. But still I persisted. I begged her to teach me how to satisfy her.

She sat there looking at me, on my knees, tears leaking down my face, for a good minute before saying, “Fine, Cam. Eat me.” She lifted her nightdress above her thighs, exposing her bush and her sweet, sweet lips.

I was shocked before; now I was stunned. I tried to bring myself back from the brink, to return to the person that I had always been – the cool, poker-faced lawyer, the thinker and planner. And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t turn away. I shuffled forward, on my knees, lowered my head between her legs, kissed her lips, and began to use my tongue.

I couldn’t believe Cam had so little thought for his own dignity, for his self-worth as a man. I had known him as a composed professional, and here he is, on his knees, wearing women’s clothes, kissing and licking me in response to my angry demand.

What’s worse, in a way, is that somewhere deep inside, I liked it. I felt powerful, in charge, a goddess accepting worship from a lesser being. Little BethAnn the cheerleader, Jack’s little wifey, was suddenly the boss. I felt myself grow wet, then wetter still.

As Cam’s tongue penetrated deeper and deeper, all of my frustration, all of my stress, all of my uncertainty faded away. I felt boneless, leaning back in my chair, panting, as wave after wave of pleasure overwhelmed me. I grabbed his hair and pulled him closer, not allowing him to break contact, not allowing him to stop. I came, again, and again, and again.

Finally, I allowed him to pull away. I was glassy; he looked dazed. I had just enough presence of mind left to direct him to the guest bedroom. I told him we would talk in the morning.

~o~O~o~

I woke early, hearing nothing but the usual morning birds. I was a wreck. How could I have done that to someone that I cared about? How could I have humiliated him like that, and then, unpardonably, gotten off on it? I’m a Pittsburgh girl and my bedroom desires have always been conventional.

I felt dirty.

But how must he be feeling this morning? The woman he was passionately in love with had just treated him like . . . I couldn’t even come up with a good analogy. He must be absolutely destroyed!

I quickly threw on a robe, popped into the kitchen and got coffee started. Then I headed back into the master bedroom, stopping to empty the dryer and dump our dry clothes onto the bed. While I was getting everything folded, I heard the shower by the guest bedroom, so Cam was up as well.

I wasn’t ready to face him yet. But I put his folded clothes on his bed, went into the kitchen, poured him a cup of coffee and dropped it off on the vanity while he was still showering. I saw the panties I had loaned him last night drying on the towel rack, so I clearly was not the only one who got relief last night. I snagged them on my way out, went back into my bedroom suite and started my own shower after tossing the still-damp panties into the dryer.

I took my time in the shower, washing my hair, lathering multiple times, using conditioner and rinsing. I got out, toweled and put the blow dryer to my hair, taking the time to get it completely dry. Then I stood in my closet, trying to figure out what to wear. This was about as unlike me as I can imagine. Finally I got disgusted at my own stalling, threw on something sensible and comfortable, and went out to face the music.

Cam was seated on the back deck sipping his coffee and to all appearances contemplating the woods. Again, I paused to observe him. Cameron Savin was definitely back; I couldn’t imagine how I found him to be feminine the prior evening. Of course, his hair was now pulled back into his usual low, male ponytail, and he was wearing a very practical hiking shirt tucked into his Levi’s.

But the real difference, I thought, was his face: composed, collected, exuding intelligence, understanding, and balance. It was the face I remembered from our first meetings. There was no trace of the distress or desperation that had overcome him.

He finally turned his head and “caught me out” looking. A small smile touched his lips and he waved me over.

I grabbed a cup of coffee myself and brought the pot out with me to top up his cup.

He thanked me and said, “It’s okay Liz. Sit down; I’ve got my shit back together. There are some things that I need to say, and then I’ll leave you to enjoy what looks like a beautiful day.”

I sat and – for a change – said nothing.

He took a minute to sip his coffee, then set the cup down on a side table and faced me directly.

Once again, I felt held by those incredible blue eyes.

Then he sighed. “Look, I don’t think this is going to get any easier, so let me plunge in. I’m so very sorry about last night. I thought I was prepared, but I just lost it. Completely. I had no right to do that to you. None. Especially knowing your history with your Ex. We gave it a try – a really good try – but it didn’t work out. Sure as hell, it’s not how I would have wanted you to remember me. So, that’s first.”

Before I could jump in, he added, “The other thing I have to say is thank-you. Putting yesterday aside, these past couple of months have been amazing for me. I’ll treasure the memories. You are really incredible and my only wish is that you have all the best that life has to offer.”

He stopped suddenly, picked up his coffee, and took a longer pull. “That’s all I needed to say, Liz. I told you it wouldn’t be so bad. Let me finish this coffee and I’ll get myself an Uber to the airport.”

Suddenly, I found myself tearing up. “Damn, how do you do that?” I grabbed a paper napkin before I made a mess of my face.

He looked, I don’t know . . . Surprised? Concerned? “Liz, what’s wrong? Please . . . I’m trying not to make this worse.”

I nodded, took a shaky breath followed by a sip of my own coffee while I tried to figure out what I wanted to say. Finally, I had myself together enough. “I can’t believe you’re apologizing – much less thanking me. After what I did last night, I thought you would hate me. I was afraid to face you this morning. That’s why I took so long in the damned bathroom. I was a complete bitch, and all you had done – the only thing you had done – was love me too much. I don’t know how you can even bear to look at me!”

I said this, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the coffee I was cupping in both hands, afraid that I wouldn’t be able to finish if I looked at him. But the silence dragged on, and finally I looked up into those blue eyes. That quiet, still face.

He just looked at me. I saw love and understanding that I knew I didn’t deserve.

Before he could say anything, I had to tell him the rest. “The worst of it is, Cam, I enjoyed it. Not the breakup. I hated that.

“But the rest of it . . . . You were there; I think you have a very real idea of how much I enjoyed it. I can’t fake an orgasm to save my life. I lost count of the number I had last night. I’ve never experienced anything like it. And it wasn’t love, it wasn’t even lust, exactly. It was power. I felt powerful. Invulnerable. What does that make me, Cam? What the fuck am I?”

He processed that quietly, never taking his eyes off my face. Finally he said, very quietly, “Liz, you are who you are. What you experienced last night is a part of who you are. And who you are, as a whole, is pretty amazing. There is a dark side to every personality trait.”

I cut him off. “But I hurt you, dammit! If that’s a part of me, I don’t want it!”

That seemed to stop him. He looked away, finally. Took a moment with his own coffee. Opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

Still looking away, he said, “Okay. I don’t want you to have to bear that burden, so I guess I’m going to have to dig my grave a little deeper than I already have. Your rejection hurt me. Of course it did. I lost it.

“But what came later? I enjoyed it, Liz. God help me, but I enjoyed every humiliating minute of that sexual experience. I exploded while I was getting you off. Never even touched myself. You think I can’t bear to look at you? Are you kidding? It’s the mirror I’m having trouble with. And what you will think of me, now that you know.”

This, I was not prepared for. I tried to wrap my mind around it. I wasn’t sure that I could. He offered me redemption from the hell that I woke up to . . . but at what price? He had tried to reclaim his dignity this morning, but in the end he sacrificed it again, telling his deepest secret, his deepest shame, so that I wouldn’t hate myself for what I had done.

I was completely at sea. No idea what to say; how to respond. What would Cam say, if he were sitting in my seat, and I was in his? Just for a minute, don’t be Bossypants Liz. How would the voice of an understanding heart respond?

Finally I knew what I had to say. “Cam. Look at me, please? Look at me.”

Slowly, he turned his gaze back, and while his expression remained calm his eyes were full of pain.

“You are the most understanding person I have ever met,” I began. “In all the time I’ve known you, I have never felt judged. Even this morning, when I had every reason to expect anger and worse, you gave me understanding and love. Can’t you give yourself the same gift? And can’t you trust me to extend just a bit of the same understanding you give to me? What did you just say? What you felt last night is part of who you are. I’m here to tell you that who you are is pretty damned special.”

The pain in his eyes eased, but it didn’t go away. “Thank you for that. But honestly, I don’t know if this is something I can understand. I don’t know if I can be both Cameron Savin, attorney, professional, and . . . and whatever it was that I was yesterday. I don’t know how I can bridge that gap.”

“If it were another person,” I asked him, “if it weren’t you, would you condemn the person you were last night?”

“I don’t know. I’d like to think I wouldn’t. I’m just an overeducated boy from the Midwest. But I know that different people are turned on, sexually, by different things. Some of those are harmful; I suppose being turned on by being dominated by someone else isn’t. Pretty weird for a guy, though.”

I wonder why he thinks it’s okay for a girl to be submissive, but not a guy. But I don’t think it would help him to have that discussion. And . . . I’m not positive that I don’t share his bias.

“Okay,” I said. "Let’s think of the person you were last night as someone else. Let’s even pretend that person wasn’t a guy. Imagine it was a girl. Let’s call her, I don’t know, ‘Candi.’ You don’t know anything about Candi, you just know that this is what makes her tick. Is Candi evil? Nasty? Someone to avoid?”

He thought a long minute. “Taking myself out of it, and imagining that it was a girl? No. I wouldn’t condemn Candi. She is who she is. I wouldn’t think less of her for it, though I might not want to date her. I’ve never tried it, but I’m very confident that I don’t have any desire to dominate other people.”

“So, we’ve got mirror images, don’t we? I got off on dominating Candi; Candi got off on being dominated. She and I enjoyed it . . . a lot. Is that okay?”

Cam took even longer to think about the question. “Yes, I suppose that’s okay. . . . The difference is, you don’t have to split yourself to make it work, and I do. It would be a mirror image if we were talking about you and me, or if we were talking about someone else and Candi.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” I said.

“You clearly were disturbed by finding power to be intoxicating, but being powerful is absolutely part of who you are every day. You can be proud to be that person, while understanding that power has dark sides, like domination, that you have to be careful about. On the other hand, Candi isn’t part of who I am every day, and thank God she isn’t. There’s nothing about powerlessness and submissiveness to be proud of.”

I tried to think of a counterargument, but he said, “Tell me this. When you said last night that we were breaking up because I couldn’t satisfy you, you weren’t saying that I should have used my tongue, were you?”

“Cam, do you really want to go there? I’ve hurt you enough this weekend.”

“I understand, Liz, and I know you are trying to spare me. But . . . we clearly do have a way to satisfy each other’s sexual desires. It simply requires me to be Candi in the bedroom and Cam outside of it. I doubt that’s what you were thinking about, and I doubt that’s what I have been looking for. Am I right?”

I hadn’t thought about it like that, but . . . . “You’re right. Last night’s sex, call it sex with ‘Candi,’ was incredible. But it wasn’t just the difference in technique, and it wasn’t about love. It was all about feeling powerful and sexually dominant. But . . . no, that’s not what I’m looking for in a long-term relationship. I’m so sorry. I really am.”

But he nodded in agreement. “That’s pretty much where I’m at too. When I get married, I want to be in a relationship that doesn’t depend on games in the bedroom. That’s what I’ve always looked for; I’m pretty sure it’s still what I want. ‘Candi’ isn’t a main course.”

After that, we sat for a long while, just sipping our coffee and sharing the quiet. I thought about Cam leaving. I had learned so much about myself in just the past day, and had explored that with an incredible person who did not judge me for it. He could not be my man, but I didn’t want to just let him go. Can we just be friends? Is that enough? Or . . . .

“Cam.” I got his attention again. “I don’t want to let you go. I really want you to be in my life, even if you can’t be my man and I can’t be your girl. I want Cam Savin as my friend, my confidante, my conscience.”

I paused, took a breath, and plunged on. “And . . . I want Candi too. Not forever. But right now. What happened last night, what I experienced, was like a door opened in my world. I’m afraid of what’s on the other side, but I want to explore it, too. But I only want to explore it with you, with Candi. With the person who can explore it with the same fears, but also the same . . . I don’t know how to describe it. Joy? Pleasure? But also love and compassion.

“Please . . . you don’t have to answer now. I know it’s hard for you, and I understand why you say it’s harder than it is for me. I get it. You may not be comfortable, and if that’s the case I absolutely understand. But if you want to open that door again, I’ll go through it with you.”

~o~O~o~

The discovery of my over-the-top sexual reaction to Liz’s order to eat her, my arousal at being dominated, my overpowering urge to please her, was earth-shattering. But our conversation the next morning was, in its own way, even more stunning.

I was up early and showered to clear my head and get the smell of sex off me. When I got out of the shower, I found that Liz had left a cup of coffee for me on the vanity and my clothes in the bedroom. She had also taken the panties that I had hand-washed and hung to dry before going to bed. My face burned in shame with the reminder.

I got dressed and packed. I heard her shower running, and thought briefly about just walking out, catching an Uber, and going home. I was so embarrassed, and I couldn’t imagine what I was going to say to Liz. She must despise me. Why not? I despise me.

But I couldn’t do that.

As bad a mess as I’d made of things, I wanted to try to end things on a better note, and I really, really owed Liz an apology. I needed to face her, however hard, and say what had to be said. So I took the coffee she had poured for me out onto the back deck and tried to still my mind, to center my thoughts, so that I could get through what had to be gotten through, and do what needed to be done.

After a while, it became clear that she was going to give me plenty of time to compose myself. She still hadn’t emerged after forty-five minutes. I was starting to think that she might want me to do what I had contemplated earlier – just leave, without saying anything more. Maybe she was just waiting for me to get the hint and get out. I decided I’d give it another five minutes.

Then I turned and saw her through the sliding glass door, standing in the doorway to her bedroom, watching me. Time to face the music. I waved her out.

She stepped out onto the deck carrying coffee for herself and the pot for me. Liz always looked great, and this morning she had clearly taken some time. Her hair was glossy and flowed in the morning sun like waves of fire. Her skin was flawless, her make-up minimal but perfect. She was wearing a pair of jeans that flattered her lean curves, tan ballet shoes that showcased her delicate feet and ankles, and a sleeveless top in cornflower blue, with a high collar, a gathered waist, and a flare at the hips. As always, she looked completely put-together.

I asked her to sit down and said what I had to say. I hoped to put her at ease and make the parting as painless as it could be after the events of the weekend. But instead, she started to cry. I couldn’t imagine what I had done.

I was shocked to discover that she was feeling terrible about her own behavior the previous evening. Sure, she was angry and lashed out. But I thought her anger was entirely justified by my own behavior. I was prepared for her rejection and knew from experience how I was supposed to react to it. That’s how I intended to respond, how any adult should have responded. She had a right to expect that, and when I collapsed instead, she had the right to be furious. But that, clearly, was not how she saw it.

And, she appeared to be completely shaken by the intense sexual gratification she got when I went down on her. It seems strange to me that she was so surprised. Our prior lovemaking, which I had enjoyed (though she, as I learned to my dismay, had not, or at least, not to the same extent), was varied – at least, I thought it had been.

But even within our whitebread range, she was on top more often than not. She had a tendency to take command in the bedroom and outside of it. That hadn’t distressed me. I’ve always preferred to ride a strong current rather than fight it.

I tried to ease the anguish she was clearly feeling by saying that there wasn’t anything wrong with the fact that she was a dominant personality, but that didn’t seem to penetrate. She was convinced that she had hurt me, deeply hurt me, by the sexual demands that she made.

I couldn’t let that stand. I just couldn’t. I had done enough damage already. But the only way to ease her mind was to tell her the truth, even though that was probably the only thing that could make her think even less of me. I had to tell her how much I had enjoyed the experience.

And I had. Lord God, I had.

Finally I told her, but I couldn’t bear to watch, to see in her eyes the same loathing I felt in the very core of my being.

But amazingly, she did not condemn. She reached out with compassion and understanding. I was relieved, but also saddened. Where would I find such a treasure again? Put aside her physical beauty, she was intelligent, kind, and understanding too.

But . . . she made it clear that we could not be a couple, and I had to accept that. I was not going to make the same mistake twice.

We ended the talk, or so I thought, with a long silence. Silence that, finally, was not ominous or oppressive. We had each bared our souls and received a form of absolution. It was almost time to go, but I stretched the moment of companionable quiet just a little longer.

And then, suddenly, she broke the silence with one more bombshell. Despite everything that had happened, she wanted to remain friends – something that I have heard often enough, but she clearly meant it – and she wanted to continue to explore the sexual dynamic that we had both experienced the prior evening.

More specifically, she wanted Cam as a friend, and my submissive, feminine alter ego that she called “Candi,” as a . . . what? Lover? Not really. Sex toy, maybe. Call a spade a spade.

She wasn’t expecting an answer right away, and I wasn’t prepared to give her one. The prospect both excited and repelled me. I did not know whether I could be both Cam and Candi. But I also really, really didn’t want to say goodbye. Could we simply be friends with this issue left unresolved? I was skeptical.

What do I want? My sexual experience last night was explosive.

Finally, I put my hands in hers, and said, “Thank you . . . for your open heart, for your understanding, and for the invitation. I don’t want to say goodbye either, and I’ll be honest. I’m also intrigued by what happened last night. Probably more fundamentally distressed than you are, though. So I need to think about whether I can afford to open that door and walk through it. Let’s think about it and be in touch in a few weeks. You may feel completely different in a couple days. I might, too.”

And so I caught my flight home. When I unpacked my suitcase, I found that Liz had slipped a couple of items into it while I was making my last trip to the restroom before leaving: the pair of white nylon panties I had creamed the night before, together with the matching bra.

She had pinned a note to the left bra strap that said, “To Candi, for her thoughts and daydreams. Eros, Liz.”

~o~O~o~

After Cam left my house, I sat on the deck trying to come to terms with everything that had happened, and trying to rationalize the offer I had made to Cam. What was I looking for? Why did I get wet at the very thought of sexually dominating a man that I admired and respected for his calm, his well-tempered mind, and his dignity?

Finally I did some background research, using private browser settings to ensure that I would not receive an avalanche of embarrassing ads every time I used my computer. I learned that my desires were not unique to me, and I learned a bit about the unique sub-culture of dominance and submission. My reading helped me to understand Cam/Candi a bit as well.

Okay, we were not “normal.” In the Congregational Church in which I was raised, “normal” would have been far from the description used in connection with what I was contemplating. But, it seemed at least possible that we would be able to experiment with the kinks in our sexual desires without harming each other. We were not married or otherwise attached, and, before I met Cam I hadn’t been looking for anyone either.

I’m well aware that I’m thirty-two and I have heard of a biological clock. But I’ve never been very maternal. I have four siblings and plenty of nieces and nephews for when I feel the need for a kid fix. I hand them back afterwards, and everyone is happy. I don’t need babies of my own to complete my life. So I have time, even at my advanced age, to play around.

Cam had suggested that we sit with this for a while, and I decided that was a good idea. Besides, a little book-learning goes a long way. So I went about my normal routines for a while. I had dinner at Fernando and Tish’s house, and let them know that I had broken up with Cam. Based on my earlier comments, Tish wasn’t surprised. She asked how he had taken it, and I lied smoothly.

Or maybe I didn’t. Cam had taken it well. He had been calm and understanding, had thanked me for a wonderful few months, and had assigned no blame. Candi, on the other hand, had been a wreck. Of course, I hadn’t known about Candi at the time, and there was no earthly reason why Tish and Fernando would ever need to know about her. But saying that Cam had been warm and understanding was true, looked at from a certain angle.

Anyhow, Tish and Fernando both agreed that Cam was a great guy and they were sorry things hadn’t worked out. We talked about other things.

The passage of time did not change the way that I felt. If anything, my desire to explore a sexual relationship with a gentle and feminine Candi only grew. I could give myself an orgasm just thinking about it. More than once, I did.

I half expected to hear from Cam, but as the weeks passed it was clear that the initiative, as usual, was mine. So I pulled out some paper and wrote Candi a “come hither” note. Then I tore it up and tried again. And again.

I had to clearly communicate, first, that I really valued Cam as a person and friend, and I didn’t want anything to screw that up. And, I wanted him to know that I wanted his friendship whether or not he decided to explore our sexual fantasies together. Too, I wanted to underscore that, regardless of what we were doing in the bedroom, we were no longer a couple. There were a lot of crosscurrents there.

I settled on a letter to Cam and a separate letter to Candi. I re-read them several times, and finally sealed Candi’s note inside the envelope with Cam’s letter and dropped them into a mailbox on my way to work.

I had hit on the notion of booking a room at a good hotel in neutral territory – neither Pittsburgh nor D.C. – and giving Cam/Candi the choice to show up, or not. The two suites were expensive, and I would regret the expense if s/he didn’t show. But I decided the chance was worth the risk.

I put the odds of Cam showing up at greater than fifty percent, but the odds of his being willing to let Candi loose at closer to forty percent. Nonetheless, I did a little shopping so I would have some toys to spice up the encounter if Candi should choose to make an appearance. Nothing too crazy. Just being “Candi” rather than “Cam” was going to be a lot for him to deal with.

On the day itself, I drove out to Philadelphia, checked myself into the hotel and left a key to the adjoining suit at the desk for Cam to pick up.

If he came.

A couple weeks passed after my trip to Pittsburgh. Work was busy, which was a good thing for me. Fortunately, I’ve always been good about compartmentalizing. I was working on three other cases, and between drafting memos to partners, preparing deposition outlines, and researching potential expert witnesses, I was able to put aside my emotional turmoil and stay focused.

I had a performance review and learned that everyone was very pleased with my work. Yay.

But when I would get back to my apartment late in the evening and cautiously loosen the iron bands I kept around my emotions, it was rough. What Liz was offering wasn’t something I had ever wanted in a relationship. But, much as I hated to admit it, the thought completely turned me on.

I started wearing Liz’s panty and bra set when I sat at my kitchen table eating my typically Spartan dinner late at night, my cock hard as a rock and straining against the thin, silky fabric. I would lie down and imagine the things Liz might want me to do, how it would feel . . . .

Liz’s suggestion was like a tap root into my soul. It brought up old, old memories that I thought I had put behind me a long time ago, things from my childhood. Whatever the reason, though, I wanted what I wanted, and there was absolutely no denying that the thought of being Liz’s Candi, while deeply humiliating, was also something that left me practically panting.

Still, I thought that Liz herself might have second thoughts as a bit of time passed. That the memory of the sexual excitement she felt would be replaced by contempt for the girl-man she had allowed to get close to her. For weeks, I was poised on a razor’s edge between fear and desire, longing, and self-disgust.

Then I received a note in the mail from Liz. I brought it into my apartment and stared at it for a couple of minutes before I was able to work up the courage to open it, finding a letter and a second, sealed envelope.

The letter was short – “Dear Cam – I want to thank you for our time together these last few months. You are a truly remarkable person, and I hope and pray you will stay in my life as a dear friend even though our relationship didn’t work out. Everyone says that. I mean it, Cam. I really, really do. So please, whatever else happens, don’t just walk away. I won’t bother you if you affirmatively tell me to leave you alone, but I warn you now that’s what it’s going to take. And, of course, feel free to call any time. The crew misses you as well; they thought highly of you and would certainly welcome your continued participation in our outdoor activities, even though we are no longer a couple. Fernando and Tish are the only couple in the group, so I don’t think you would have to feel like the odd man out. Think about it. Know that I care about you deeply.”

This was lovely, and thoughtful. Far better than I had any right to expect after the complete hash I had made of things when Liz had lowered the boom. And, truth be known, it was appealing. Through Liz, I had connected to a whole social circle that was a lot of fun, and discovered activities that I had never even thought to partake in were thoroughly enjoyable. I wasn’t ready to jump back in as “just a friend” to Liz. But in time, maybe.

I didn’t dwell on that, though. The interior envelope was addressed to Candi, and the note inside was even shorter.

“If you are ready to come out of hiding and find out who you really are, meet me at the Rittenhouse Hotel in Philadelphia on September 28. I have booked adjacent suites with a connecting door, and I will leave the key to your room at the front desk in an envelope addressed to Cam. I expect he and I will have a few things to settle before you are invited, but after that I will strip you of your defenses, put you through your paces and unlock your desires, one by one.”

The note was initialed, “LT.”

To be continued . . . .

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

~o~O~o~

I was in my room a bit after 3:00 p.m. I emptied my suitcase, put my clothes in the dresser and my toiletries in the bathroom, then stripped out of my practical travel clothes. I thought about taking a shower, but since I wasn’t sure what time Cam might arrive – again, assuming he would – I decided to pass on that and get ready.

I was going for a look that I had never tried before. First, I slipped into a Merry Widow – a black corset with garters extending from the bottoms. I rolled black silk stockings onto my legs and attached them to the garters, and then added a pair of black silk panties. I pulled on my more extravagant purchase – a pair of knee-high boots with four-inch heels – and then checked my look in the mirror. Do I look like a badass? Oh yeah!

I covered up my “treats” with a modest denim skirt that hit me mid-calf and a merino wool sweater. I thought about switching to more dramatic makeup, but I knew I had to have a discussion with Cam before anything else happened, so I stayed with my day look. I was just putting in my gold infinity hoop earrings when I heard someone enter the adjacent suit.

I took a few deep breaths, then gave myself a minute by taking the time to give my hair a bit of a brush. I was just stalling; the hair looked fine today. Once my pulse was back to normal, I walked over to the connecting door and gave two sharp knocks. I heard the lock click, and Cam opened the door.

He looked good – face calm; expression welcoming. He was wearing a navy jacket over a crew-necked sweater and a button-down shirt and khakis. “Liz. Thank you for the invitation. Why don’t you come sit down?”

The “living room” area of the suit had a couch and chair around a coffee table, as well as a glass table and chairs suitable for eating dinner or for a meeting. Cam went to the latter table, which made sense to me. There were things we had to discuss, and, depending on how things progressed, agreements we had to make.

Once we were both seated, I said, “It’s really good to see you. I wasn’t sure you would come.”

He smiled – a kind of quirky, self-deprecating Cam-smile. “When have I ever been able to resist you? Of course I came.”

We just stared at each other for a minute, not quite sure how to proceed. But I was the one proposing to dominate, so I decided I had better be the one to get the ball rolling. “First and foremost, I am glad to see you, as a friend. Always. But, that’s not what this trip is about. Are you willing to explore your submissive side? Are you willing to let Candi out?”

He didn’t blink. “Yes. Subject to some caveats, which we’ll need to talk about, but yes.”

I felt a big, hungry smile creep up on my face. Let him see I’m ready! “Ohhh-kay! Then, let’s talk about your conditions – and mine. I think my conditions may alleviate your concerns, but we’ll see. Shall I proceed?”

He nodded.

“Alright. First, I’m Cam’s friend, and we’re equals But Candi will be under my orders. I will treat her with love, but I expect obedience. I am Liz to you; Candi may address me as ‘Ma’am’ or refer to me as ‘Ms. Talbott.’ At least for now. Clear so far?”

Again, Cam nodded.

“I won’t do anything to you that can’t be undone. For example, I intend for you to wear makeup and nail polish. But nothing that can’t be completely removed at the end of our session. I understand that Candi has to be able to go away without any trace that would keep you from being Cameron Savin outside of the bedroom. What happens between you and me will be completely confidential. You need to agree to this, too. Just like you, I have a job, a life, and a reputation, all of which would be impacted if our play became public knowledge. I assume that’s acceptable?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Next. I may want to take photographs of Candi for my personal enjoyment, and I will not share them. Agreed?”

He took longer on this one. “So long as I get photographs of you that are equally compromising, and we each get copies of any photographs that are taken, yes. And, of course, I give you a reciprocal promise that no photographs will be shared.”

I couldn’t disagree with any of that, so I nodded. “Next, I may want to take Candi to a public place at some point. May. But this will not happen without my discussing it with Cam in advance, and without Cam’s approval. Agreed?”

“Uhhh . . . I can’t imagine being comfortable with that. But, so long as I’m not agreeing to anything in advance, okay.”

“Those are my thoughts,” I said. “Did you have additional stipulations?”

He thought for a moment. “You’ve actually covered most of the points that I was thinking about, Liz. But there is one more. I don’t know what you are planning, and . . . I guess that’s actually part of the fun. But I will need a way to call ‘stop’ if there is something that makes me uncomfortable, something that you will agree in advance to respect. I don’t know that I will need it, and I don’t want you to think that I don’t trust you. But . . . I don’t actually know my limits. I don’t know what might cause me to freak out.”

“We need a safe word,” I said.

He looked at me quizzically.

I explained. “Sorry. Did a bit of reading. We pick a word or phrase that you can say to stop the action if you are feeling uncomfortable or threatened. Something other than ‘no, stop,’ because that’s just something Candi might say to increase the drama, without meaning it.”

“Ah,” he said. “Research, huh? Why didn’t the lawyer think of that? I guess I wasn’t doing a lot of ‘thinking’ about this! Anyhow, that sounds right. How about I say ‘red light’ if I need to stop, and ‘yellow light’ if I need you to pause and give us time to discuss it before proceeding?”

“Works for me,” I said. “And, I promise, I will respect it. I don’t want to hurt you, Cam. But I will need to push some boundaries, and I think Candi will want me to push. Do you understand?”

He nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I think, too.”

“Anything else? Any other issues we need to go over, any further stipulations?” I asked.

He thought for a minute and then shook his head. “I think that’s it.”

“You don’t want this in writing, do you?” I asked.

“Ah, no. That’s a piece of paper I wouldn’t want my name anywhere near. It would be a career ender for either of us to try to enforce it anyway. We know what we’ve agreed to. If either of us breaks the agreement, we just walk away. I’m only doing this because I trust that we have an overall relationship of love and respect. If I’m wrong about that, no piece of paper will salvage the situation.”

I could only say, “Me too, Cam. Me too.”

Then I looked at him sharply. “Okay. Discussion’s over. It’s time for my friend Cam to go away, and for Candi to come out. Are you ready?”

Cam looked at me, his eyes unreadable. Then he stood up slowly . . . and Cam Savin began to melt. Not literally. But his distinctive calm left his face. His eyes grew wide . . . he looked vulnerable, even fearful, like a puppy unsure of his welcome.

He pulled the clip from his ponytail and shook out his long, black hair. He reached into the lower inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out not one, but two teardrop earrings, which he proceeded to put in each ear. Then he removed his coat, folded it carefully and put it over the back of the chair he had been sitting on. He pulled his sweater off over his head, shaking out his hair as the sweater came off. The collared shirt, it turned out, was white, sleeveless, and sheer enough to reveal the lingerie underneath it. A woman’s shirt.

I felt myself grow damp.

He kicked off the shoes he was wearing – some type of slip-on ankle boot. Then he slowly began to unbutton the shirt. He was wearing my white bra, but he had also acquired a white silk camisole with wide straps, a plunging, lacy neckline and a scooped bottom that came to mid-crotch in front. As with the jacket and the sweater, he neatly folded the shirt and put it on the chair. Finally, he unclasped his belt and lowered his pants to the floor, stepped out of them carefully, then picked them up, folded them, and put them with the rest of his clothes. He was wearing my white panties, and his shaven legs were covered with thigh-length, lacy white stockings.

Cam was gone, and Candi had arrived. She looked down, took a shaky breath, then glanced at me fearfully.

At first I was too overwhelmed to say anything. After waiting a moment for my reaction, she put her right foot behind her left, bent both knees, and lowered her head, executing a perfect, and clearly practiced, curtsy. She said, in a small and uncertain voice, “I’m here, Ma’am. I’m ready.”

Oh, damn, am I turned on! I quickly stood and shed my own sweater as well as my skirt, not giving a shit where they fell.

Candi’s eyes popped out when she saw my outfit.

Good! I turned my back on her, walked to the middle of the room, turned back and beckoned her over by snapping my fingers and pointing to the spot in the floor immediately in front of me.

She left the shelter of the table and came over. Her movements were hesitant, tentative.

It made me want to eat her up. “Give me a spin,” I commanded.

She gave me a slow twirl, then stood before me, knees and ankles together, arms at her sides, head and eyes slightly lowered.

I walked around her slowly, taking my time. “Well done, little one,” I said. And she was little. Oh, Cam was almost my height, but with four-inch heels on, I felt like I was towering over Candi.

As I came around her back, I reached out and ran my fingers over her bare shoulder, stopping at the straps of her bra and camisole, then I ran my fingers lightly down her straps. I reversed my hand and ran the back of my fingers over her panty-clad ass, causing her to shudder. “Well done indeed. A good start.”

I came in close behind her, reached around and gently massaged her chest through the right cup of her bra, with my fingers inside her camisole. I gently licked her shoulder, moved her long hair aside with my left hand, blew lightly into her ear, and gave it a little nibble just under where her earring was clipped. “Stand there for a minute, Candi, and think sweet thoughts. I’ll be right back.”

She remained standing without changing her position, while I sauntered next door. When I came back, I held a pair of pumps. I was sure the shoes would fit; I knew Cam’s shoe size because we’d stopped at Little’s in the Squirrel Hill neighborhood one of the times he’d visited. The conversion to women’s sizes hadn’t been difficult. “Time for some training,” I told her. “Put these on.”

She obeyed, putting on each shoe and staying balanced without kneeling or trying to find any support.

I filed that piece of information away.

She stood before me, poised on her heels, and waited for my next command.

Her complete submission was practically causing me to orgasm on the spot. “Okay, girly. Follow me.” And I led her through the open door into our new world.

“Cam and I had our little discussion, but you and I need to have one, too,” I told her. ‘Because the first thing we are going to do is strip away your defenses and bring you out of your hiding place, however deep you think it is. So you just stand there, legs together. Hands together. And answer my questions." I sat down on a chair, facing her as she stood meekly before me.

“Let’s start simple,” I said. “What is your name?”

“Candi,” she said softly, still not meeting my eyes.

“Candi what?” I replied sharply.

“Just Candi,” she said.

“That’s one,” I said sternly. “You know how you are to address me. I don’t expect to have to remind you again. Now, what is your name?”

Even more softly, she said, “Candi, Ma’am.”

“I can’t hear you. Try again.”

“Candi, Ma’am,” she responded quickly and more audibly.

“Better,” I said. “Okay, Candi, what are you?”

She was momentarily confused, looking up at me quickly before casting her eyes down again. “I’m a girl, Ma’am.”

Oh, I was enjoying this. I started pushing the questions faster. I understood cross-examination from the work that I had done with Cam preparing for the antitrust trial, so I decided to borrow some of his own tricks.

“Do you remember the last time I saw you, Candi?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Did you enjoy wearing my panties?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Have you worn my bra and panties since I gave them to you?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Now, that wasn’t the first time you had worn panties, was it Candi?”

That question seemed to catch her out and she hesitated.

“I’m waiting, Candi. That’s two.”

“No, Ma’am, it wasn’t the first time.”

“Do you remember the first time you wore panties?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Time to switch out of cross – this required some explanation. “Tell me about your first time in panties, Candi.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” she said slowly. She took a deep breath. “My big sister used to dress me up, when I was little. Four. Five. Party dresses, mostly. Frilly things. But she always had me wear panties and a girl’s camisole. And white stockings. We had tea parties together.”

“I see.” And I guess I did. Fascinating. “Did you like dressing up for your sister?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Why? Did you know even then that you were a girl?”

“No, Ma’am. At least, I don’t remember thinking that. I just . . . I loved my sister. I wanted her to like me, I guess. It felt good inside, that she wanted to include me. It made me feel special. Wanted.”

Candi paused a minute more, then quietly said, “Yellow light, Ma’am.”

Immediately I stopped my questions. I stood up, tucked a finger under her chin and brought her head up so that she would look at me. “Okay, take a minute. Let me know what’s bothering you. No Ma’ams, now; we’re in time out.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I didn’t expect to be spilling my secrets, but . . . I guess it’s more than fair. No issue there. I even think you’re probably right. But I need to draw the line at Fi’s secrets. I don’t want to say anything that puts her in a bad light. This was something that happened a long time ago, but it stopped when I was still little and Fi was just eleven or twelve. Fi and I don’t see each other much – none of us do – but we have a solid relationship. Can we put this issue aside? Please?”

I cupped her cheek with my hand. “I understand. Of course, we can.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Are you still okay?” I asked, making sure that she kept eye contact. “Do you need a minute?”

“I’m okay,” she said. “Green light, Ma’am.”

I returned to my seat, lowered myself gracefully and crossed my legs before resuming my examination. “Alright, Candi. Did you wear panties again after that?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Were you alone?

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Yes, Ma’am. When I was a teenager, I took some of Fi’s cast-offs and wore them sometimes. I remember a pair of panties.”

“Were there other things, Candi?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“What did you take?”

“I remember taking a pair of pumps and nylons. And . . . I remember taking a green one-piece swimsuit.”

Aha! I thought she was no novice to heels. “Did you teach yourself how to walk in heels, Candi?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Were you sexually aroused when you wore women’s clothes?”

“Sometimes, Ma’am. Not always.”

“You look very pretty today, Candi.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Do you like your pretty lingerie?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Does it make you aroused, wearing your pretty things?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Last time I saw you, you had a noticeable bulge in your panties, Candi. If you are aroused, why don’t I see one now?

“I put tape down there, Ma’am.”

“Why did you do that?”

“So that my panties would look better, Ma’am.”

“It’s important for you to look good for me, isn’t it? To look good in your panties?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Very good,” I said. “Very, very good, Candi.”

~o~O~o~

I woke up in a state of intense anticipation. Today’s the day!

The prior week I had driven out to a Target in the Richmond area, far from anyone I knew, and purchased a few items with a gift card that, I hoped, couldn’t be tracked back to me. I used the self-pay station, but I still felt like everyone was watching me pick up a sleeveless top with a unisex collar, a pretty, lacy camisole, white stockings, a pair of dangly earrings, a hair dryer and a few other supplies. I threw a few other things in my basket just to make it seem ordinary. Probably no-one paid me any attention, but I still felt conspicuous as hell. It didn’t matter. If I’m going to do this, I want to do it right!

So I had everything I needed to get myself ready. I started by spraying Nair on my legs, arms, chest, and underarms. I’m not very hairy at the best of times, but I wanted to be completely hairless for Liz. The underarms stung! After the set amount of time, I rinsed off in the shower. Then I washed my hair with a volumizing shampoo, and for once actually followed the instructions to “lather, rinse and repeat.” I worked in a sweet-smelling conditioner that reminded me a bit of lavender and let it set for a good five minutes before rinsing it out.

Rather than simply toweling off my hair and putting it into my ponytail, I wrapped it in a towel while I dried off and rubbed body lotion into my skin to soften any stubble.

When the mirrors were completely clear of steam, I got out an electric razor and carefully shaved any hint of hair from my face. I put shaving cream on it and followed up with a straight razor. After I wiped everything down, I checked my face and my body carefully for any missing hairs. It felt strange having no underarm hair. It felt sexy, too.

I had always just used a comb on my hair – a comb with narrow teeth before I grew my hair out, and wider teeth afterward. But I had certainly seen women blow dry their hair, including Liz, so I had an idea of how it was done. When I was finished, my hair looked very different – fuller, bigger and somehow finer. Still, I gathered it, keeping the long strands tight against my skull and placing the clip low on my neck.

I hooked myself into the bra that Liz had given me, slipped into her panties, and settled my new camisole over my head. I rolled the two white stockings up my legs just as I had seen Liz do, letting the elastic at the tops hold them in place against my thighs. Amazing. Then I put on my camouflage – khakis, my sleeveless top, a sweater heavy enough to keep my lingerie straps from showing, and a suit jacket. I finished with ankle boots with elastic in the sides that I could easily slip on and off. I grabbed my suitcase and went to catch my train.
I got to the hotel around 4:00, and as promised Liz had left a key for me at the front desk. I took the elevator up, found the room and walked in. I had barely set down my suitcase when I heard a rap on the door to the adjacent room, so I went to let Liz in.

She looked good, as always, in a soft black Merino wool sweater over a denim skirt and boots. She had an almost hungry look that I hadn’t seen before.

We sat down and I agreed that I had come to take up her offer, to explore our corresponding sexual fantasies.

She quickly took control, laying out some sensible ground rules that pretty much corresponded to the issues I had intended to bring up.

I raised the issue of needing a way to signal a halt in the action, and she suggested a “safe word.” Apparently it’s a thing, and she had done some research to find that out. Oddly, doing research had not occurred to me. But the preliminaries didn’t take long, and she was ready for Candi.

This was the moment of truth. I had come prepared to let my feminine side out, the persona that Liz thought of as “Candi.” But, did I really have the guts to do it? When she asked if I was ready, all of my confidence drained away. All my plans, all my preparations, didn’t matter. I was scared. Scared of what Liz would really think. Would she laugh? Would she mock?

Intellectually, I was sure I knew her better than that. But in that moment, I wasn’t sure of anything. I was afraid that I was going to start shaking, or crying. I must have looked like a deer caught in headlights.

But I made myself stand up, take down my hair, put in my earrings, and start removing my armor of male-ness. The jacket, the heavy sweater, the boots. Even the shirt. Finally, the khakis. There was nothing left but me, standing before Liz in silky white lingerie, feeling more exposed than if I had been naked. All or nothing, I thought.

I dropped into the curtsy that I had practiced countless times in front of my mirror, and told her that I was ready. Or, rather, that Candi was.

Liz looked triumphant. She stood up and practically threw off her sweater and skirt. Like me, she was dressed for play under her modest outer garments. A tight black corset emphasized her toned waist, the flair of her hips, and the swell of each peach-perfect breast. Her bush was encased in black silk panties and her legs shimmered in silk stockings that attached to the garter straps from her corset. Her gloss-black leather boots came all the way up past her knees and added inches to her height.

She looked hot, so hot . . . but also commanding. She had me stand in front of her, then twirl. She walked around me, practically purring, fondling me, blowing in my ear and giving it a nibble.

I was overwhelmed. I felt like my volition had completely fled. I stood where she said to stand, twirled on command, and was motionless as she caressed me. I hadn’t been told to move, and without her command, I seemed to have no will of my own to do so. She left me standing there as she went back into her room, returning with a pair of pumps with short heels. She had me put them on and led me back into her lair.

Inside, she had me stand in front of her and answer question after question, stopping to remind me that I was to respond “Yes, Ma’am” or “No, Ma’am.” I had no thought to refuse, no will to refuse. I confirmed that I am Candi, and Candi is a girl. I confessed that I had dressed in women’s clothes as a child and was aroused while wearing them as an adolescent. It should have been too humiliating to even contemplate, but in reality it was a relief to just get it all off of my chest. I hadn’t ever spoken to anyone about these things.

The only time I was able to pull back was when she had me reveal things that made Sis look bad. I was able, barely, to call a halt and ask for mercy on that point. When I did, she immediately called a time out, and accepted my request with tenderness.

She asked if I was okay and made sure that I was before proceeding.

I felt a surge of trust. Yes, I was baring my soul, but I could trust this woman to keep me safe. I signaled that I was ready to go on.

She did.

~o~O~o~

When she was done with her questions, she said, “Very good. “Very, very good, Candi. Now, come here.”

She had been seated during her examination of me. “Bend over across my legs, but keep your feet on the carpet.”

I did as I was told.

She rested her right hand on the back of my panties and said, “You failed to properly acknowledge me when you gave your first answer to a question, and you failed to answer another question promptly. Do you have anything to say that would mitigate your mistake?”

I didn’t. I was afraid of what was coming. Is she going to spank me? That doesn’t feel right at all.

She took her hand away. My sphincter involuntarily tightened, waiting for a blow that didn’t come. I heard a snapping noise that I did not recognize, followed by a squirting noise. Bent over with my head down, I couldn’t see what she was doing. But she started petting my butt again, gently running her hand over my panties, murmuring something soothing.

“Relax, Candi,” she said. “I have to be strict, but I’m always fair. You have done well today. I’m pleased.”

I relaxed, and was soothed by the gentle rhythm of her touch, circling, circling.

She eased my panties part-way down and began to stroke the skin of my ass directly.

I sighed. Then I felt a finger, moistened with some cool liquid, touch the sensitive skin around my hole. I felt like I had received an electric shock. I groaned. The finger circled slowly, gently. I felt hot all through my body. My poor taped member ached, and my groaning increased. The finger probed deeper, deeper. I couldn’t take it any longer. I cried out and nearly fainted from the orgasm that exploded between my legs.

“My, my, my,” Liz said. “I seem to have found a sensitive spot, haven’t I? You take a minute, Candi, then I think you are going to need to clean up, aren’t you?”

I could barely croak out, “Yes, ma’am.” When I recovered my breath, Liz slipped my panties back into place and helped me stumble to the bathroom. I was in a deep daze.

“Okay, Sweetie,” she said. “I think you had better strip off your pretty things.”

I complied, while she removed a thin rubber glove from her right hand and put it in a plastic bag next to the trash. Fortunately, the thorough mess I had made of my panties had not spread anywhere else.

Nonetheless, she had me remove every stitch.

“Hmm,” she said. “I see that you didn’t remove your pubic hair, Candi. You’re going to have to fix that. Let me see how you did everywhere else.” She inspected me minutely, then went over to the vanity, dug through her toiletries and pulled out a pair of tweezers. “You did a good job, Candi. A few misses on the back, but I’ll take care of that for you.”

I felt several tugs in the area of my upper back, then she stopped.

“I brought some Nair with me – I didn’t think you would take care of that little issue before you arrived. You probably didn’t know that you could use it on your pubes as well. It’s going to sting a bit, and you will need to use a washcloth in the shower to pull out the remaining hairs. But we can’t have you all messy down there. Now, get your tape off.”

I said, “Yes, Ma’am,” but I was strangely reluctant to free my male genitalia. In the head space I was in, they felt wrong, out of place. Nevertheless, I did as I was told.

Pulling the tape stung, but it was over quickly and my penis hung down, still dripping. Liz handed me a couple of tissues and told me to clean myself off. Then she applied nair to my balls, my groin, and the area leading to my belly button. It itched, but no worse than when applied elsewhere. Really, the underarm application had been more unpleasant.

“Good start, Candi," she said. Then she had me rinse the panties thoroughly in the sink, using soap. By the time I was done, enough time had elapsed for the Nair to do its thing.

Liz did something with my hair that left it all on the top of my head, then covered it with a plastic shower cap. “In you go, Missy.”

I went into the shower and, following her directions, shortly my pubic hair spiraled down the shower drain. I was completely hairless, except for the mass on top of my head. Suddenly the shower door opened and Liz joined me. She had stripped out of her lingerie and boots and, unlike me, had gone without a shower cap.

“You did such a good job with your hair removal, that you can give me a shave as well.” She sat on the bench at the end of the shower and handed me a safety razor and some type of soap that foamed a whole lot. “It’ll be easier to do my legs if you are kneeling,” she said with a mischievous grin.

So I was on my knees, with the shower now mostly on Liz. She lazily raised her right leg and rested her toes on my left shoulder. “You can start there.”

It was an amazingly sensual experience. The steam, the constant stream of hot water, the foam of the soap, the satiny smoothness of Liz’s calf, her thigh . . . the care with which I had to handle the sensitive spaces behind her knee . . . the perfume of the soap, and, as I brought myself closer to shave the tender skin on the inner part of her upper thighs, her own smell. I was lost in the moment.

I looked up to find her gazing at me with a half smile on her face and a sleepy look in her eyes.

“Having fun?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Yes, Ma’am. Very much.”

“Good,” she said. Then she stretched, arching her back in a way that did interesting things to her breasts. “Let’s give you a bit of a challenge then. I hate shaving my pits. You do it.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, with a lot of trepidation. I had Naired my own underarms; it was going to be very hard to do the job with her razor, and god forbid I give her a cut! At least Liz wasn’t ticklish.

She stood up and motioned me to follow, then lazily raised her left arm, bent her elbow and put her hand behind her head.

I carefully soaped her tender skin and applied the razor, using the shortest possible strokes. When I had cleared all of the soap, I rinsed the area, checked it visually, then confirmed by touch that I had gotten everything.

She had me repeat the procedure on her other armpit.

Amazingly, I avoided cutting her.

“Well done, Candi. Very well done. You may now wash my hair. Just a shampoo rinse today.” She stepped around me and faced the shower, bending her head to soak all of her hair.

I applied the shampoo liberally and slowly massaged it into her scalp.

“Ummm,” she said. “More.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She bent her head and rinsed off the shampoo. Keeping her back to me, she gave me back the bar soap. “Wash me.”

I slowly soaped up and began to run my soapy, slick hands over her shoulders and around her narrow neck, down each arm, encircling each finger of each hand. I got my hands soapy again and soaped up her freshly-shaved armpits, then continued forward to caress each breast, my chest almost against her back. I ran my hands across her belly, then let them drop lower, until my fingers were in her bush, brushing against her labia.

She was shaking, but remained quiet.

I scrubbed her back, then knelt to soap up each leg, starting with her feet and ending with her beautiful, round ass. When I was finished I didn’t move; I just stayed on my knees on the floor of the shower, watching the water flow over her lovely curves.

~o~O~o~

We toweled off, which included directions from Liz on how it’s done by girls. So I patted myself off while she did the same. When we were more or less dry, she told me to show her that I knew how to dry her hair. I was glad that I had practiced on my own!

She had me follow her out of the bathroom, and she slipped on one of the hotel’s terry bathrobes. But she directed me to put on an outfit selected to remind me of my first experience as Candi – a short robe designed to show long legs to advantage, and a pair of panties to hold my member in place. This time, the robe was a soft blue satiny material with lace trim and three-quarter, kimono-style sleeves, and the panties were high-cut, ice-blue lycra. They felt incredibly feminine.

“Well, Candi, I’m going to get myself presentable and go downstairs for some dinner. I’ve got some homework for you to do while I’m gone. I have a beginner set of cosmetics for you that came with a link to some instructional videos that will walk you through the basics. I want you to watch the video, and then practice. I don’t expect perfection – there is a whole lot of art to doing it right and experience matters. I warn you that your first efforts will be comical. But you are a smart girl and I fully expect your complete concentration and your absolute best effort. Remember that less is more.”

She handed me a smallish bag and a receipt that had a link to the videos. Then she shooed me back into my own room. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready for your next lesson.”

I had no sooner sat down on the couch and pulled out my iPad than Liz reopened the door. “Almost forgot. I packed some food for you in case you get hungry.” She handed me an insulated vinyl lunch bag and padded back into her room.

I looked at the clock and saw that it was a bit after six. I wasn’t hungry, so I located the instructional videos and started watching. The instructions started by identifying the vials, lotions, potions, and applicators in the starter set and explaining what each was designed to do and how it worked. That was followed by a step-by step demo, which viewers were encouraged to pause after each step to try the technique that had just been explained.

I moved into the bathroom for this part, since the hotel provided a lighted, close-up mirror over the vanity.

The video took about forty minutes, though the step-by-step portion was more like twenty. It covered moisturizer, primer, foundation, blush, highlighter, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, lip gloss, and setting spray . . . to say it was daunting does not begin to do justice. I had no idea the process is this involved. Liz had always gotten ready on her own, and all I remember my sister doing back in high school was putting on some lipstick. I knew there was more to it, but I was stunned at how much more.

By the end of the video, the pretty instructor looked stunning. l, on the other hand, looked more like an extra for a Stephen King movie. But Liz had warned me about that and I wasn’t too dismayed. The video ended with instructions for undoing everything, so I did that, brought the video back to the start of the step-by-step instructions, and began again. And again.

I was surprised to discover that I was enjoying myself. I felt a mix of emotions, but none were bad or threatening. There was the sheer challenge of trying something new, especially something that called upon the talents of both artist and artisan rather than the verbal and analytical skills with which I was more practiced. There was the fun element of viewing my face as a canvas with potential rather than a finished portrait. And, under it all, the deep current of sexual tension, seeing my face in a new, feminine way, imagining ways to make my eyes look larger, more alluring, or make my lips look moist . . . and kissable.

Around 7:30 I paused to eat. I wasn’t terribly hungry, but I knew I would be before the evening was over and I didn’t want to annoy Liz by failing to eat what she had provided. Which turned out to be a PBJ on white bread, a banana, and a half-pint of milk. I chuckled when I thought about the nice meal she was undoubtedly having downstairs, but she had been very clear: In my Candi persona, I was not her equal. Still, I’ve always eaten what was put before me without a lot of fuss. Fuel is fuel.

I returned to my efforts. I thought my fifth try wasn’t too bad, all things considered, and I was about to wipe it off and try again when my phone buzzed and I saw a text from Liz instructing me to come to her in her room. I decided to leave effort number five in place, happy that she had not caught me a half a minute later. Leaving the cosmetics on the vanity, I went next door.

Liz was sitting in the occasional chair in the “living room” grouping of furniture. She had dressed in a black ribbed tank top in a stretchy knit fabric, tucked into a fitted scarlet skirt, with black pumps. Her top had a low, scooped neckline that showed a bit of her cleavage, and the clinging fabric emphasized what it covered rather than concealing it. It looked like she had worn a white jacket down to dinner; it was folded over the back of one of the dining chairs. She was sipping a glass of red wine and looking relaxed.

As I came into the room, she motioned me to come over and stand in front of her once again. I did so wordlessly, and remained motionless as she stood, inspected my first efforts with makeup and reached over with her left hand to move my face left or right to complete her inspection.

“About what I expected, Candi. A good start. I want you to take the cosmetics home with you and practice some more. I think it’s a skill that you should develop. It will be good for you. Tonight, I’ll give you a taste of what you can manage with the assets you possess if you really work at it. Go back, remove all of your makeup, then bring your kit back to me.”

When I came back in, she started by pulling my hair back up again, twisting it somehow then sticking some sort of long spike in it to hold it in place. Then she went to work on my face. She took about fifteen minutes, turned my face left and right, then nodded, apparently satisfied.

“A beautician can do a much better job than I just did – they’re professionals, I’m not. You may want to find one who is discrete and willing to give lessons, but that’s your call, on your dime, and your own time. I’m a pretty talented amateur, though, if I do say so myself, and you will see a big difference from your efforts. Go have a look.”

I went over to the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. My dark hair was piled on top of my head, with a few stray whisps strategically dangling past one ear to my neck. My eyes looked huge and somehow darker, my cheeks more prominent, my skin glowed and my lips glistened. It was me, and it wasn’t. I wasn’t gorgeous, like the made-up model in the video or like Liz. Pretty doesn’t really capture it. But I did look feminine. And younger. Sweeter.

“Not done yet, Candi. I’ve got more treats for you,” Liz said. She had me hang the robe in her closet then join her by the table. She sprayed something on my bare chest, then opened a small box and removed what was clearly a prosthetic breast, which she proceeded to place over my left nipple and lower pec. She told me to hold it in place, applied the right breast prosthetic, then had me hold that one, too. She got an evil grin on her face, pulled out her phone and took a few photos. I’m sure I looked like the very picture of helplessness, all made up, wearing nothing but blue panties, cupping my breasts with both hands.

When the sticky stuff had set, she applied cosmetics to the seams where the prosthetics met my skin. By the time she was done, you would have needed a bright light to detect that the breasts were not natural. And, while they provided no feeling, they sure felt heavy.

Liz then pulled a bra out of the bag on the table that matched the ice blue panties, hooked it behind my back, lifted each breast, put it into the corresponding cup, and then spent a couple of minutes adjusting the straps. When she was finished, it felt surprisingly right.

A garter belt followed, then sheer, pale blue stockings. She had me put on strappy, close-toed sandals with three-inch heels, which brought me almost to her height in her then-current footwear.

“Guuurl,” she growled, “you look hot.” She brought me over to the mirrored door to the closet, and had me strike a pose. “Raise your right knee a bit, leaving just your toes on the ground,” she said from behind me. “Curve your left arm up and hold the end of the hairpin as if you were about to pull it out. Stroke the top of your left breast with the fingers of your right hand, held flat. Open your lips, just a fraction. Now, look at yourself in the mirror . . . look how sexy you are. Look how soft. How pretty. Think hot thoughts. That’s it . . . . There.”

I finally looked away from my own image long enough to see that she was taking more pictures. The shots would be . . . well, “embarrassing” doesn’t cover it. But we had an agreement about that, and I trusted Liz.

She slid behind me and started kissing my back and shoulders, bringing her arms under mine to stroke my chest. She let her right hand glide down my body to my panties, and I leaned back into her, content to let her play with my body, closing my eyes and feeling a burning glow inside.

“Now, Sweetie,” she cooed. “Go in and lie on my bed. On your back, with your legs spread, your knees up and your hands behind your head.” I was starting to breathe hard just imagining where this was going. I reveled in the feeling of her mastery – overheated and panting.

She took a few more photos, then sat beside me on the bed and started fondling my body. “I could blindfold you,” she said conversationally, “But you and I both know that I don’t need to. All I have to do is tell you to close your eyes, and you will obey, won’t you?”

I struggled through my gasping to respond affirmatively.

“Do it,” she said, and I did. She got up and walked away then, leaving me struggling for breath on her bed, completely vulnerable and utterly at her mercy. It never occurred to me to open my eyes.

I don’t know how long I lay there, but I became aware that she had returned as I detected the scent of her perfume above me. I felt her hand stroke my smooth face. She probed my lips with a fingertip, and blew gently into my ear. “You are mine, Candi,” she said in a low, fierce whisper, millimeters from my ear. “Mine!!!!”

I could only moan, “Yes, Ma’am!”

I felt her get onto the bed, straddling my head and pinning my arms with the bones of her shins. She began to brush her fingers here and there over my skin or through the sexy lingerie that wrapped me in a cloud of femininity. She caressed. She coaxed. She teased.

I felt like I was going to lose consciousness, so far was I lost in the sensuality of the moment – the sound of her fingers passing over silky fabric; the faint smell of her subtle floral perfume and the now much stronger smell of her womanhood, so close to my nose. To my lips. Every nerve was alive, quivering like the strings of a harp in the hands of an artist.

Then the smell of her own excitement grew and became overpowering as her hot, wet labia descended to meet my glossy lips. Her voice, husky with lust, commanded, “Eat me,” and again, more urgently, “Eat me. Now. Now!!!”

As I eagerly kissed, licked, sucked, and probed with my tongue, I heard Liz’s own labored breathing and a high whimper that I realized with a shock was my own. I felt Liz’s juices flood over my lips, twice, three times.

She stopped again and lifted herself off of me, her breathing still labored. She grabbed my wrists and brought my hands out from behind my head. Then she placed a strange object into my right hand and straddled my augmented chest. “Open your eyes, now, and impale me with my toy.”

I was holding a piece of some rubbery material with an uneven surface, more or less in the shape of a penis, but considerably larger than the one I was endowed with by nature.

I was too caught up in the moment to be distressed. Only her pleasure mattered now. I spread her labia with the fingers of my left hand and inserted the dildo with my right.

“Pound me,” she panted. “Harder!!” “Faster!!” As I obeyed her command, she pumped her hips to increase the penetration.

I could feel her shaking violently. She screwed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth, her face contorted in a rictus, trying to restrain the cry that finally tore from her throat, the sound that a champion weightlifter sometimes makes as he heaves a massive bar-bell past his chest and over his head. She stopped, and clearly that was a sign for me to stop as well. Some commands are no less compelling for being delivered without words.

“Well,” she said after a few seconds had passed. “Well . . .” Finally, she opened her eyes. It took her a minute to focus, but then she looked down at me. I’m sure that my makeup was all messed, and my hands were still holding the dildo in her pussy. “Okay, Candi,” she said. “You can pull it out now.”

I sighed, “Yes, ma’am,” and pulled the dildo out of her vagina.

She shivered again as it slipped past her labia. She loomed over me, looking at the dildo, glistening with her own juice. Then she looked at me. “Clean it,” she said.

Again, I felt my will melt away. “Yes, Ma’am,” I replied, and brought the dildo to my mouth. I carefully licked her juices from the base and up the sides, finally licking the tapered head.

“Suck on it.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” I slipped it past my lips and applied suction.

“In and out, Candi. In and out. And, get it in deeper.”

I began to suck in earnest, moving it deeper then pulling it back, over and over. I felt like I could see the threads that bound me to my male ego and sense of self stretch and grow gossamer thin, until they began to snap like the strands of a spider’s web that has been hit by a baseball. I heard myself whimper again.

Just then, she moved her body backward, and sank her ass down onto my panties, grinding her body against my thoroughly engorged penis.

For the second time that day, I cried out and exploded.

My eyes were closed, every sense overwhelmed. I felt her pull the dildo from my mouth. I found myself starting to cry, to sob. I had no idea why. I was shaking. I didn’t feel her move, but she came off of me.

She let me cry for a bit, then she sat at the top of the bed and leaned against the pillows. She pulled me to her, lay my head against her breast, and started stroking my hair. “It’s okay, Candi. It’s okay.” Then she did something to wet her nipple and guided my lips to it. Instinctively, mindlessly, I rooted like an infant, while she continued to stroke me and give me reassurances.

I don’t know how long we lay like that, but eventually I did stop crying and pulled my lips from her nipple. She sat up off the pillows and lay my head in her lap, continuing to stroke my hair. I gazed up at her, seeing no trace of her passionate apotheosis at the height of her orgasm.

She looked peaceful, serene.

Finally, she said, “I think that’s enough for now, Candi. I’ve got a nightie for you to wear tonight. I want you to take it back to your room now. Clean yourself up, remove all of your makeup, rinse out your soiled panties, and get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, I would like Cam to join me for breakfast at 8:30. He and I will decide when I see you again. Okay?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good night, Sweetie.”

“Good night, Ma’am.”

I must have done as she commanded. Fixated on following her commands, I had no more thoughts at that point than a zombie. I had no awareness of what I was doing and retained no recollection of my actions once I was back in my room. I had only one coherent thought, before sleep overwhelmed me. Cam can sort this out tomorrow.

~o~O~o~

What a day! I had pushed and pushed, and Candi . . . Candi just lowered her gaze, murmured “Yes, ma’am,” and complied with my every command, my every wish. I was intoxicated by my power, my complete control, over her. I told her to stand and she stood. Demanded answers to questions and she gave them. I was briefly tempted to give her a spanking for some minor failures, but I had no interest in being cruel or abusive. Besides, she was being very cooperative!

I made her shave and shower me like a maid. Had her stand still and passive while I fondled her. Made her practice with makeup while I went downstairs and had a nice dinner, leaving her nothing but a child’s meal and milk. Put breasts on her chest and paraded her in sexy lingerie. Had her on her back with her legs spread wide on the bed. Had her suck me off and pleasure me with a dildo. She took it all: submissive, obedient, biddable as a girl.

God, it made me so hot!!! Sometimes I orgasmed just watching her. When she licked me and pounded me with my dildo, I damned near exploded.

But I knew there was one more test, and again, she passed it without hesitation. I had her lick my juices off of my dildo, then suck on it. I watched her writhing on the bed, breasts heaving against her pale blue bra, eyes closed, sucking the fake cock with glossy red lips, a look of complete ecstasy on her pretty, painted face. I felt transformed with my sexual power, invincible, invulnerable. I ground my ass into her pussy, watched her squeal and climax.

It did not surprise me that she was overcome and began to cry. I had accomplished everything I hoped for, stripping away all of her defenses, peeling away her armor. It was time to give her comfort, to make sure she knew that however vulnerable she was, she was safe with me.

I felt, as I never had before, a fierce desire to protect her, like a lioness with her cub. Yes, she was defenseless now, but by God, I would keep her safe!

Eventually, I gave her the comfort of an infant, guiding her to mindlessly suck at my breast like a baby. Then I sent her off to bed. I set an early alarm, put on a utilitarian night shirt, and went straight to sleep. I have no doubt I was smiling as I drifted off.

I got up a bit before 6:00, tidied up, and collected Candi’s cosmetics. I eased open the door connecting our rooms and, as I expected, found that she was still sleeping deeply. She was lying on her back on top of the covers, one arm at her side and the other curled about her pile of dark hair. Judging by the slow rise and fall of her breasts, she was sleeping deeply and peacefully. She looked sweet, innocent, young, and very feminine. I left the cosmetics and a spare hair brush in her bathroom – just in case she should want them! – and eased myself out the door.

Back in my room, I threw on a sports bra, a racerback workout shirt and nylon shorts, then I went downstairs and hit the hotel gym for a quick workout. An hour later, I was back in my room, sweaty and happy amidst the endorphins that accompany a runner’s high, with a start-of-the day cup of coffee. I showered, dried my hair, put on some light morning makeup, and got dressed.

I woke up as the light of dawn began to seep through the translucent curtains of the bedroom. Whatever dreams I had encountered had left me rested and tranquil. I felt a moment of disorientation, staring at the ceiling – trying to remember where I was. I shifted my body fractionally, and my disorientation increased as I felt the unusual tug of silky soft fabric against my skin. I raised my head and looked at myself.

I was dressed in a silky, pale, blush-colored nightgown with capped sleeves, a shirttail hem, and a plunging, lacey, v-neckline that exposed my . . . very feminine breasts. My breathing stopped, and, finally becoming fully awake, my recollection of the prior day came flooding back. I put my head back on the pillow, closed my eyes, and took a moment to process my thoughts.

After a few minutes, I stirred and slid out of bed, feeling the silky fabric caress my moving body. I walked over to the mirror and looked at myself.

I must have managed to remove my makeup, because there was no evidence of any on my face. My hair was disheveled and hung over my shoulders and part way down my back. The nightgown Liz had chosen for me was very flattering, making my arms look more slender and my legs longer. My augmented breasts dramatically improved the drape of the garment.

I did not look at all male, but the evidence of my biological sex was beginning to assert itself. I went into the bathroom, lifted my nightie, and sat down to pee. When I was done, I wiped myself with some toilet paper, then went to the vanity. I apparently had washed my panties last night, and they were almost dry. I tucked my member between my legs and put on the panties to hold it in place.

It was about 6:30. I had two hours before I – or rather, before Cam – was supposed to meet Liz for breakfast. I couldn’t remember taking the cosmetics back with me, but I must have since the bag was on the vanity. I decided to try my hand at makeup again before beginning my transformation.

After taking a moment to ensure that I had no stubble, I went back to the video. My first effort went well enough that I shut it down and worked from memory. I did better than the night before, but nowhere near as well as Liz had done. No surprise.

There was a hairbrush on the vanity as well, so I went and sat on my bed and brushed my hair. I was inspired to bend my head down, and brush out from the base of my skull to fluff it up some. Then I sat up and brushed it out from the front and top. I found it very soothing, and kept brushing for several peaceful minutes.

When I was done, I found where I had put the strappy sandals and put them back on, securing the strap firmly over each ankle. Then I went back to the mirror to check out my look. I felt pretty, though that didn’t really capture how I looked. I started running my fingers, then my hands, over my nighty, rapidly getting hot once again. I stopped, went back to the bed and stripped off all of my finery. I went into the bathroom, removed my makeup again, then turned on the shower and stepped in.

I let the water sluice over me for a while, before rousing myself to fully scrub and wash my hair. Then I carefully found the seams of my breast prosthetics, peeled them off, and washed the sticky material off of both them and my chest. That task complete, I stepped out of the shower.

It took some effort to re-center myself, to find the male consciousness which, up until this weekend, I had simply thought of as “me.” I took deep, calming breaths. Surrendering to the naming dichotomy that Liz had introduced, I said, “My name is Cameron Savin. I am Cam. I am a man.” I repeated this like a mantra, six or seven times.

My mind appeared to settle. I finished with, “I am a man, I am Liz’s friend, and she wants to meet me for breakfast. Let’s get moving.”

I gathered the cosmetics, the strappy sandals, the prosthetics and the lingerie that was in the room and put it in a “laundry bag” that was part of my suitcase. Unlike the prior day, I wore male clothing inside and out – briefs and socks, loafers, khakis, a crisp white oxford shirt and my blue blazer, with a heavy Rolex-style watch on my left wrist. I put my single gold circle in my left ear, pulled my hair back into my usual severe ponytail, and went back to the mirror to make sure that no trace of Candi was visible.

I passed.

It was about 8:15. I spent a couple minutes policing the room to make sure that all of my clothing and other possessions, male or female, were packed away, then went downstairs to the restaurant.

It was time.

~o~O~o~

Just weeks ago, after encountering Candi for the first time, I had been embarrassed to face Cam in the light of the next day. Now, all that I felt was anticipation and curiosity. How is he processing our adventures from yesterday?

Well, it was 8:30, so it was time to go find out. I took the elevator back downstairs and walked briskly to the restaurant, a few minutes late as I intended. I didn’t immediately see Cam, but he had obviously kept an eye out for me, walking in from the courtyard area and over to where I had entered.

He looked perfectly normal, his manner friendly and relaxed. He gave me a smile and a “Good morning, Liz,” lightly touched my elbow and steered me to the table where he had been sitting. The restaurant wasn’t that busy and it seemed that most people were preferring the indoor tables.

To me, the air felt delightfully crisp.

He pulled my chair out for me like a nice guy from the fifties and sat across from me with his back to the wall, giving him a view of the whole restaurant. He lifted a carafe of coffee and quirked an eyebrow.

“Yes please,” I said.

After taking a sip, I looked at him carefully. “Okay, Cam. After-action report. First, how are you doing?”

“I’m fine, Liz,” he said. “Really.”

I looked at him minutely. He seemed calm and composed as ever, like nothing had happened, but Cam had his lawyer face on. There was no telling.

The silence stretched a bit, until he reached over and gave my right hand a quick squeeze. “I’m okay. I’m not going to say that yesterday didn’t rock my world; it obviously did. I’m still digesting it. But I’ll be fine. How are you doing? Better than last time, I hope?”

“I’m good,” I replied. “Really good. Last time, I was worried that you would hate me for what I had done. Today . . .” I began.

He stopped me with a hand motion, then looked over my shoulder as a waiter wandered over to our table. We paused to order breakfast.

After the waiter left, he looked back at me. “You were saying?”

“I feel good about yesterday, Cam. I came here wanting to explore an aspect of myself that frightened me, one that I had regarded as bad, something to keep leashed. And, to give you the same opportunity. I hoped that it would be safe for us to explore these things together – that you and I found something of value in the parts of each other’s character that others might reject. That we had rejected ourselves.”

He nodded.

“Yesterday was everything I had hoped for,” I continued. “I felt strong. Powerful. Sexually dominant. I’ve got to say, I have never been so turned on. But . . .this has to work for both of us. And I really, really don’t want to hurt you. Sitting here this morning, you seem strong and calm. But Candi – Candi was naked and vulnerable. So I need to make sure that I’m not damaging you. Either of you, so to speak.”

He smiled. “You see? You aren’t the monster that you thought you were. Even when you gave yourself up to your will to dominate, you still felt the need to protect. Your passion is constrained by your feelings. Your commitments. That makes all the difference.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that. But I’m not letting you off the hook. Did I hurt you, or Candi, yesterday?”

He thought for a minute before responding, “I don’t think there’s a simple answer to that, Liz. You know I’m a pretty controlled guy, normally.”

I broke in with a dry, “No, really?”

He gave his quirky half smile. “Really. I think everyone constructs the face that they show the world, but I’ve probably been more intentional about it than most people. What you see is what I want you to see. The danger with that is that after a while, it’s hard for me to see past my own construct.”

He was speaking slowly, like he was working it out in his head while answering my question. Which I noticed he still hadn’t done, but I decided I would see whether he would get there.

He continued. “What you did last night was to shred my carefully constructed persona, to put me in a position where I had to let it go. I had to surrender control, which I thought was central to who I am. Did that ‘hurt?’ I don’t know how to answer that. It was hard as hell, that’s for sure. I was scared of what I would find, and what you would think of what I was when the person I had always shown you was stripped away.

“But it was also incredibly liberating. I allowed you to be in complete control. Trusted you completely. Gave you all of my carefully guarded secrets. Allowed myself no pride, abandoned my false dignity. To be completely without responsibility – even for a few hours? It was an amazing experience.” He grinned.

I didn’t really think of personality the way he was describing it. “So is ‘Candi” the real you?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “That’s not what I mean. I think we stitch ourselves together out of odd scraps of mixed up fabric – old memories, desires, stray thoughts, dreams, inherent strengths and weaknesses, experiences . . . . We choose what we think matters, and it’s just a scoop of what’s available. The ‘me’ you have known for the better part of a year is ‘real,’ in the sense that all that you see really is part of me. But the same, I guess, is true of the ‘me’ you saw yesterday. I was just hyper aware of who you call ‘Cam,’ because that is my own construct. I didn’t see ‘Candi’ at all. Doesn’t mean she wasn’t there all the time.”

Then he looked at me carefully. “Does that change how you see me, Liz? Can you still think of me as a friend, an equal? Knowing some of the weirdness I keep buttoned up?”

I didn’t hesitate. “No, it doesn’t change how I see you. At all. You are my friend, and an amazing person. I told you up front that I didn’t want anything to change that, and nothing has. Nothing that happened yesterday and nothing you told me this morning.”

I paused. “I do see Candi as someone different. And I don’t think I could sit here and have this conversation with Candi. For a bunch of reasons. But one of them is that I don’t think of Candi as an equal, the way that I think of you. That doesn’t mean I don’t ‘respect’ that part of you. Parents respect their children. Usually, I think bosses respect good workers; officers respect their troops. Or they should. But they don’t see them as equals or treat them as equals.”

“So it helps you to think of ‘Cam’ and ‘Candi’ as different people?” He half-asked, half-summarized.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m not sure why, but it does.”

“If Cam is your friend, how do you feel about Candi?”

I thought a minute about how to respond. Finally, I said, “I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this. Candi’s vulnerability, her complete submission to my control, makes me hot. Really hot. But the further I pushed, and the more Candi surrendered, I just felt this overwhelming desire to protect her, to keep her from harm. I don’t know how to fully describe it. I felt strong. Fierce. Protective. And . . . possessive. I wanted Candi to be all mine. Are you okay with all of that?”

He seemed relieved. “Yes, Liz. I’m okay with that.” He was about to say more when the waiter came back with our breakfast, and we wordlessly agreed to turn to easier topics while we ate.

I told him a bit about what was going on at work – I had been assigned to be a senior manager in a product development team that was exploring a potential market for new service offerings, which would involve more hours and a lot more travel. “I’m really excited by it,” I told him. “Building a team, getting people motivated and working toward a common goal – I’m good at it.”

He talked a bit about his own work, which seemed to be going very well, too. Not that I was surprised.

When we had finished eating, Cam returned to our conversation. “So, what’s next, Liz? Do you see yesterday as a one-off? Have you scratched your dominant itch sufficiently, or do you want to explore it further?”

“I think I haven’t found the depths of Candi’s surrender. And . . . I want to. I want more. But I have to be clear. We are both free and unattached. You may not stay that way. I may not. We should feel free to date.

“No, let me put that more strongly. We should date. And, at some point, one or the other of us will get into a relationship, and our sexual exploration should stop. I don’t think what we have – or rather, what I have with Candi – is what either of us want long-term. But how about you? Do you even want more?”

I had thought that he might be hurt at my reminder that he and I would never be a couple again, but he didn’t seem to be bothered. “Yes, I want more. ‘Candi’ is trying to tell me something, and I’m going to need some time to figure out what that ‘something’ is. And, honestly . . . you are freakin’ hot when you start giving orders in the bedroom.

“I agree this isn’t long-term. I don’t really want my sex life to be defined by fantasies for the rest of my life. Right now, though . . . I’ve lived a very boring life, Liz. I feel like a walk on the wilder side. But . . . I’m only comfortable doing it with you. I can trust you with my vulnerabilities – maybe more than I can trust myself.”

I pressed his hand. “Thank you for that.”

He smiled. “Now, there’s a small matter of photographs . . . .”

I giggled, which I don’t do much. “Yeah,” I said. “Got some beauts!”

“Well, you have to copy me on them.” He slipped his phone over and I did as he requested. Then he reminded me that I had to give him damning photos of myself as well. “I doubt you’ll have anything as embarrassing as what you have of me, but I absolutely don’t believe you didn’t try out your black Merry Widow and boots, and with all that camera gear you have back home, I’m sure you got some interesting shots!” He grinned.

I found myself blushing, which I also almost never do. “Guilty,” I said, and transferred a couple pics I had taken in front of a mirror back home.

He had a look and chuckled. “Hmm, yes. Those will do. The curled whip is a nice touch, by the way.”

I joined his laughter. It felt good.

We paid the check and went back upstairs. He had to catch a train, while I would be heading home later.

We left the adjoining door open while he went in to brush his teeth and do a last check.

I went through my room to collect any of Candi’s things that we had left in my room, and walked over to give them to Cam.

“Liz, thank you. These must have added up to some expense; let me pay you for them.”

I had an immediate, strong, and negative reaction, which caused him to raise an eyebrow at me. Damned lawyer.

“Okay, give,” he said.

I had to think a minute before responding. “I guess it’s a power thing. I want Candi to be dependent. I want her to be a kept girl, and I want to be the keeper. Back in the day, the guy would pay for his girl. It was ‘chivalry,’ but it was also a way of putting down a marker. Saying ‘you’re mine.’ So, yeah. I bought stuff for my girl. I want her to accept my gifts with gratitude, not pay for them.”

He thought about that for a minute, then nodded once. “Okay. I guess I understand that. And . . . I’m sure ‘Candi’ will be suitably grateful – for your thoughtfulness as well as your generosity.” He got everything into his suitcase.

“Based on our conversation this morning,” I said, “it sounds like both of us have some very busy weeks ahead. I don’t know when we’ll be able to get back together next. But I’d like to see Candi again sooner rather than later. In the meantime, I’m going to set up an email account for her and send you the credentials to get into it. I’ll use that to send her . . . more detailed instructions, shall we say?”

He smiled and agreed, then gave me a short hug, the sort that you might give a work friend of the opposite sex, and took off.

~o~O~o~

The turnpike from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh takes the better part of five hours -- more if traffic doesn't cooperate. But I like driving, so I didn't mind. Besides, it gave me time to think and plan. We had committed to further exploration of our sexual fantasies. But, as my limited research showed me, those games came in lots of flavors. I now had a better sense of what turned each of us on.

I have the wheel. Where do I want to drive this?

I thought about some of the games I had seen in my reading. There were endless variations, but I found myself uninterested or completely turned off by most of them. I didn’t have any desire to hurt or humiliate Candi. In fact, I didn’t really want to do things to Candi at all. I wanted to do things with her. Things that would allow her to experience being the sexually passive partner – the very traditionally feminine role, and the more feminine, the better – while I got a taste of being the dominant sex partner.

Do I want Candi to walk a mile in my shoes?

I sensed that wasn’t it. Not exactly, any how. And the more I thought about it, the clearer the answer became.

I want her to walk in BethAnn's.

I was as competitive in high school as I am today. I was smart, got good grades. But the smart girls were a distinctly lower caste. It wasn’t enough to be a smart girl – even the leader of the smart girls.

To be the best of the best – the popular kids, the ones everyone wanted to be like – a girl had to be pretty. And sexy. Smoking hot, but also sweet, innocent. The cheerleader type, that the cool guys, the football players and the like, pursued and fought over. It was confusing, crazy, hard. But I applied myself. Learned my lessons well. Beat them all at their game and came out on top, the undisputed high school queen.

When I set my sights on Jack – a quintessential high-status catch – I quickly figured out what he was looking for and made sure that was what he saw. Jack wanted a girly-girl, a sweet, submissive wife who never questioned his authority. I convinced myself that I could be that person -- and do a better job of it than anyone else. I should have known that was not who I am.

Now, I found myself turned on by taking the dominant position Jack had assumed in our marriage. I wanted to see how Candi would do in the submissive, traditionally feminine role. It wasn’t who I am, but it might very possibly be who she is. Cam's sexual response to my moves to feminize him – both yesterday and weeks ago in Pittsburgh – had been extremely positive. I seemed to be pushing on a door that was, at the very least, more than slightly ajar. I wasn’t at all surprised that he had experimented with cross-dressing when he was younger.

As I was coming to the end of my drive, I hit upon a path forward. Having Candi dress like a girl was, in many ways, too easy. That’s a child’s role, Candi isn’t a child, and I don’t want a child as my partner in this exploration. I would invite Candi to think like a girl. Like a woman. To learn some of the same lessons I had learned, and that all girls learn.

And I knew just how to do it. The more I thought about it, the hotter I got.

At home, after I made myself a light supper, I set up an email account for Candi with a service that included cloud storage of documents, videos, and the like. Then I put on my Merry Widow, stockings and boots, freshened up my warpaint, and made my sweet Candi a little video.

– To be continued . . . .

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

~o~O~o~

Amtrak got me to D.C. in good time and I was back in my apartment by mid-afternoon. I unpacked my suitcase and found myself grappling with the novel problem of how I was going to wash all of my new feminine attire. In the absence of a better alternative, I hand-washed it all and hung it in my bathroom to dry. I certainly was not going to risk taking it to the laundry in the basement of my apartment building! So in short order my bathroom was festooned with lingerie.

I stayed firmly in “Cam” mode, however. I had gotten some work done on the train, but I was trying to finish reviewing responses to interrogatories and requests for production that we had received from opposing counsel in one of the cases I was working on. We had scheduled a meet and confer session with the other side for Wednesday and our team had yet to meet to decide which of their objections we should fight. We didn’t have a time scheduled to do that, and for all I knew the partner in charge would want to do it first thing in the morning.

I worked straight through the evening, skipping dinner. I had a bite on the train and can often get by with short rations. Around 10:30, I got that gritty feeling in my eyelids that was a sure sign I was starting to hit a wall. I saved my comments and decided I would get into work early to finish before the rest of the team made an appearance.

I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and the unusual “decorations'' reminded me that Liz had said she was going to send me credentials for a private email account for Candi. I checked my personal email account on my phone and, sure enough, there was a message from Liz. The message simply thanked me for the weekend and included an email account name – meyecandi@boogiemail – and a password – lycra&lace#1.

I turned on my pad, went to my preferred web browser and set it for private searches. Using the information provided by Liz, I accessed the boogiemail account, and found both an automated welcome email from boogiemail and a separate email from an account I did not recognize – Bossofyou@boogiemail.

This proved to be from Liz as well. It read, “Hello, Candi. Welcome to your new space. Memorize your credentials and have Cam erase my earlier emails from his system. Do not change your password for any reason. Feel free to record videos and writings in the cloud storage attached to this account. No-one will read them but you and me. I have recorded a video that you should watch now, containing your first homework assignment. I am sure you will give it your very best, as always.”

I found the video and downloaded it. Liz in her living room, in front of the fireplace. She was back in her full Merry Widow, coupled with black silk stockings and panties, and high-topped black leather boots. Her feet were set shoulder-width apart and she was toying with a leather whip that I had seen in her photograph – but not in person. Her costume, posture, and dramatic makeup all worked to enhance the impression of sexual power. The camera, set below waist height, gave her the illusion of greater height.

She gave it a moment for the image to set in, then she looked straight at the camera and said, “Hello, Candi. It’s time for you to receive your first assignment.

“You have the heart of a sweet, submissive girl. But you are inexperienced, like a child. I can dress you to look pretty, or sexy, sweet or sultry, alluring . . . but a woman needs to know how to do all that herself. Women work at it from a very young age, and you have no idea how hard we work, because we also learn how to make it seem effortless.

“Well, Candi, it’s time you learned. Cam figured out how to ‘think like a lawyer;’ You’re going to learn to think like a girl. I know you can do this, if you apply yourself properly.

“Your disadvantage is that you haven’t been doing it all of your life, but you have advantages as well. I know you’re smart and I know that your powers of observation and analysis are very well-developed. You simply have never been asked to apply them to this problem before.

“So, start by thinking about your body critically, like a girl would. You do have experience knowing what guys find attractive. Use it. What things about your face, your hair, your body would be attractive to men? Which parts are most feminine, or might appear feminine with work. And work is important. Because girls learn how to make the most of their assets and minimize or disguise their liabilities.

“Think about what colors would look good on you. What fabrics, what styles, would showcase your prettiest and most attractive features. Apply the same objective analysis to your makeup, your nails, your hair.

“And, understand that it is not enough to know what works in the abstract. The right fashion also depends on the time of year, the occasion, the people who may be there, and the message you want to send them.

“So, here is your first assignment, Candi. Imagine that a couple of your girlfriends from high school are in town, and you are taking them out for dinner and a performance at the Folger. Decide what you’re going to wear, how you’re going to do your hair and makeup, and what color you will use on your nails. Obtain the necessary items, practice your look, refine it, and give me a virtual demonstration in two weeks. Put it on your calendar: October 13, 7:00 pm. I will call you then. If you have any questions, email me.

“I think you will enjoy this assignment, and I fully expect to enjoy the results of your efforts. I expect to enjoy it a lot.” The video ended.

I played the video again.

I sat still for some minutes after that, just absorbing the message. I suppose that I should have been shocked, hurt, or angry. Two months before, I would have been.

Instead, floating on the powerful sexual charge of my response to Liz’s effortless dominance, I was excited. Not just sexually, although I was that – almost painfully so. I was excited emotionally, intellectually. Creatively. I wasn’t just willing to complete her assignment, I was eager to. The sensation was overwhelming.

I made my way back to the bathroom, stripping as I went. The sheer material of my lingerie had dried quickly. Thrilled by the realization that I was, indeed, thinking of it as my lingerie, I slid my ice-blue panties up my smooth legs and hooked into the matching bra.

I looked at my image in the mirror and giggled. My chest lacked volume and my panties held too much. I retrieved the breast forms Liz had given me and carefully inserted one into each cup of my bra.

Then I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and willed my body and my whirling brain to stillness. Another breath. And another. I felt myself slide from dizziness, from giddiness, into calm. Breathing slowly, deeply, I let the calm grow.

I opened my eyes. I felt tranquil without any diminution of my sense of purpose, my eagerness to be about my task. The unsightly bulge in my panties had diminished substantially, and I tucked back without further thought. Better.

I went into my bedroom and stood in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door. As Liz had commanded, I looked at my body objectively, critically, using criteria I had never thought to apply to myself. Can I be attractive as a girl? I began to consider my assets and liabilities.

Asset: I have nice eyes. Even without makeup, my deep blue eyes pop.

Liability: My Adam's apple isn’t pronounced, but my throat doesn’t have the completely straight lines that most women possess.

Asset: Because my experience with puberty had been mild, I’ve never had much acne. As a result, I have very clear skin. It’s not as soft or smooth as a woman’s skin, but I can work with it.

Liability: While my shoulders aren’t broad or powerful, they are definitely wider than average for a woman, and the downward slope from neck to shoulder blade is less pronounced. Though not out of the ordinary, women whose shoulders have more of a drop give the appearance of having, longer, more graceful necks. I don’t have that advantage. As a mitigating factor, my neck isn’t wide compared to my head or face.

Asset: I don’t have much body fat and my muscles are lean rather than pronounced. My upper arms have more definition than most women. I can’t pull off petite or delicate. But I know plenty of women, including Liz, who have as much muscle tone in their biceps.

Liability: No way around it, my hips are narrow and my ass is small. In addition – and in consequence – I have very little by way of a waist, and what I have is too low. My shoulders are a couple inches wider than my hips, which in turn are an inch or two wider than my waist. So I don’t have the delectable, luscious curves that so easily turn heads. Not that turning heads is my goal. But I want the looks that have that effect.

Asset: I’m not sure about the legs. I went and grabbed my new strappy sandals and put them on. In heels, there was no doubt: I have really nice legs – long, decently muscled, devoid of fat, and shapely. Definitely an asset.

So it went. My hands fell into the asset column; my fingers were long relative to my palms, making them appear more graceful. My feet were liabilities, though not irredeemably so. My ankles and wrists were fairly narrow – a plus. My height was fine; I knew plenty of taller women, though again I would never be cute or petite. I had a flat stomach, but even tucking away my penis, I lacked the swell of a woman’s mound over my pubic area.

My breasts, of course, were non-existent. While the silicone did wonders – thank you Liz! – I was not confident that even the best makeup on the seams would stand up to close inspection in bright light. I would need to wear fashions that assisted the deception. I judged that my augmented breasts were a C cup because they were around the size of Liz’s natural assets. Of course, I could always get a larger set of prosthetics, but the set Liz provided seemed well paired to my frame.

My face seemed to be neutral. I had no features that were overtly male or female. No pronounced jaw; no particularly full lips. My nose was unremarkable, my eyebrows neither elfin light nor Neanderthal heavy. Looking closely, I did appear to have relatively long eyelashes.

My hair presented a challenge. It was very dark brown, almost black, and thick. I had not had it cut in three or four years; out of my habitual low ponytail, it was somewhat wavy and fell to around the center of my shoulder blades at its lowest point. But it did not fall particularly evenly. No woman would tolerate it. I wasn't sure what I could do about it. Everything I did to look sexy on the weekend had to be reversible for Monday morning.

It was strange to think of myself in these terms, on multiple levels. First, obviously, it was strange to think about whether my body could be “pretty” or evaluate it for femininity. Second, and equally strange, was to view it as something malleable. As a guy, I assumed my body was what it was. Girls might find it attractive, or not (generally the latter), but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Even when I had decided to grow my hair out into a ponytail or get an earring – something I had done in law school, when I was finally away from St. Louis and everyone who knew me – I wasn't trying to improve my looks. I was just trying to make a statement, suggest that I might be more interesting.

As a girl, my view was radically different. I could view my face and body as a project, clay to be shaped, or a canvas that could be painted and repainted to achieve different effects. Blemishes could be hidden; good points could be showcased. The thought was intriguing.

Fi had always complained about her flaws, many of which I thought were imaginary. Does being a woman involve constant self-image critiques?

I took off my heels and bra, but left my panties on and slid my new nightgown over my head, shivering as the silky fabric slithered over my bare chest, caressed my ass, and settled around my smooth calves. However I looked, that nightgown made me feel feminine, pretty, and very sexy. Rather than sliding into bed from the top, I pulled back the sheets, sat mid-way between the head and foot of the bed, swiveled and lifted my legs in, to keep my nightgown from riding up. I covered up and fell quickly to sleep.

I dreamed a scene from Cinderella. But the fairy godmother appeared, not before the put-upon village beauty, but to a young lad. She pointed her wand and his form appeared to melt, shift, becoming softer, settling into the sweet, graceful lines and curves of a woman’s body. The fairy warned, “Remember, dear, the spell will only last until morning.” As she finished speaking, my alarm went off.

I lay in bed for a few minutes, simply enjoying the silky feel of the nightgown and panties against my skin, thinking about fashions, and makeup and hair styles, until my alarm went off a second time. I was startled. Cam needed to get his sorry ass into work, but Candi did not want to depart.

~o~O~o~

Finally I barked, “Enough,” rolled myself out of bed, stripped, and went to shower.

The week that followed was one of the strangest I had ever experienced. I began each morning early, getting into work and putting in an hour or two before grabbing something light to keep me going. There was a shop across the street that did smoothies of various sorts, which were adequate to the purpose. If I got hungry in the early afternoon, I could get a pre-made salad at the cafeteria in our building, which (I told myself) was better than the sandwich options. I usually did not leave work until after 7:00.

My days were filled with reviewing documents, doing quality checks on contract attorney’s document coding, writing summaries, and meeting with other lawyers on the litigation team. I sat through a nearly three-hour conference call with opposing counsel on Wednesday while the senior associate did the talking. I was very busy, very engaged, and thoroughly enjoyed feeling like I was a valuable (if junior) member of the team.

But when I finally left the office, Candi came back to the forefront of my consciousness. Candi was as focused on her assignment as Cam was on his. So I would wander around the National Harbor area or Dupont Circle or go to a sports bar (important, because the Cardinals were in the playoffs!), and people watch. More specifically, I was looking at the women, but in a way that I never had before. I wanted to learn from them. Were there women who had narrow hips and broad shoulders? There were. Were they pretty? Some no, some yes, some strikingly so. What were they wearing? Did it look good, or not? How were women wearing their hair? What colors were they painting their nails? How did their makeup look? What shoes were they wearing? What jewelry?

I would see a beautiful girl and think, could I look like that? Often, and regretfully, the answer was “No.” No, I could never look like the stunning Latina girl, all full, rounded curves, whose low-cut, ribbed cami-top displayed ripe, perfect breasts that looked as soft and welcoming as down pillows. I could never look like the delicate Asian girl with the perfect features, tiny waist, and size two shoes. Even with girls closer to my size, I would find that I could not copy the styles that worked so well for them. Like the sultry blonde in the golden brown, low-cut slip-dress. Expose that much of the seams on my prosthetics and I might give away the game.

I was usually home by 10:00, but Candi would spend another hour or so online, trying to get ideas to fulfill Liz’s demand. By Friday, I was exhausted, and seemed no further along. I had no way to vet the websites that dispense fashion advice the way that I screen data sources I use professionally. Unsurprisingly, the advice they provided went every which way.

Because of my eye color, hair color and skin tone, I was apparently a “cool winter” type, but websites differed on what colors I should and should not wear as a result. And, what do you do if the colors that supposedly look good on you don't match the season you are in? Some websites suggested that women with broader shoulders should avoid tops with skinny straps; others thought such styles flattering. Same with hair. Shoes. Makeup. I felt like the Cardinals, unable to figure out Atlanta’s pitching, just flailing and floundering.

I'm not used to floundering.

I decided that, much as I hated to contemplate it, I had to get help or I would fail the straightforward task Liz had given me. I did some discrete web-searching to find out if there was someone who could provide the sort of beauty guidance I clearly needed. And that’s how I found myself, early Saturday afternoon, taking the Green Line out to College Park, near the University of Maryland, to a salon owned and run by Al and Javier, an apparently gay couple who advertised their work with the LGBTQ community and their absolute discretion.

I called ahead, using a VOIP app that assigned a random telephone number, and spoke with Al before deciding to go through with it. I knew that not all members of the gay community are supportive of transpeople. While I didn’t think I was trans, I decided that it was the most plausible explanation for what I was asking them to do.

“We don’t discriminate here,” Al reassured me firmly. “We have lots of clients who are cisgendered biological girls. But we have clients from the gay community and the trans community, too. Everyone comes for the same reason: we are really, really good. Mostly we just do hair, nails, makeup. But if you want a private consult that includes lessons, we can do that too. You would be very welcome.”

If Liz had told me to talk to another guy, in person, about how to make myself look pretty, I would have put up a red light, or at least a yellow. But somehow this felt different. She hadn’t told me how to do her project, she just expected it to be done well. And I found the possibility of failure to be intolerable. So what had been unthinkable suddenly became imperative. As per Al’s instructions over the phone, I entered the salon through the back door, filled with trepidation, determination, and maybe a bit of hope.

A middle-aged man came down the narrow hall from the front of the salon when he must have heard the buzzer from the back door. He was a bit over six feet tall and well-built, clean-shaven and with short-cropped blonde hair. He introduced himself as Al and then, before I could respond, said in the kindest possible voice, “What name would you like me to call you?”
 

I hadn’t introduced myself on the phone, and I hadn’t thought about the fact that I would need to provide a name when I came in. But Al’s demeanor, his voice, and the careful way he had framed his question told me that he was sincerely interested in meeting me where I was at, without judgment.

I did not need Cam for the preliminaries. “Please call me ‘Candi,’” I said, offering a handshake with a gentleness that I would never have used in Cam-mode – less shaking hands than offering my hand to be shaken. “Thank you so much for making time for me on such short notice.”

He brought me into a back room that was outfitted with a sink, a barber’s chair, and a makeup station. It also had two occasional chairs, and he seated me in one and sat down in the other. He offered me tea or water, but I was too nervous – too excited – to accept.

“So, let’s talk about what you would like to do today. You mentioned your hair, your nails, and your makeup, right?”

“Yes, please,” I said, then added, “I’m trying to learn how to look and act like a woman. A friend who isn’t local is helping me by giving me discrete projects – trying little bites rather than one big gulp. So, she said I should imagine that I’m taking some old friends from high school to a play and to dinner, and put together an appropriate look. I've spent a week doing research and I feel completely lost. I thought you might be able to help me. But, I have to be able to continue looking like a man for my job. Can you teach me some skills that I can use for hair, nails, and makeup, so that I can put it on and take it off without help?”

“We absolutely can, Candi. And, I think you’re going to be impressed. Whether you know it or not, you’ve got a lot of potential. I’m the hair guy and Javier does the makeup magic.”

“Great! Where do we even start?”

“Here’s my suggestion. Javi will come in first to work with you on nail polish – help you select some colors, show you a bit about caring for your nails, show you how to put on extenders and polish. He’ll get all that going, then I’ll come in for a bit and help you with your hair while your nails are drying. Then Javi will work with you on makeup. When you are done, we’ll show you how to take everything off so that you are ready for work. Sound like a plan?”

“Perfect,” I said, with enthusiasm. Oddly enough, it sounded positively heavenly.

“Then let’s get started,” he said. “I’ll ask you to change into this robe so we don’t get product on your street clothes, then I’ll ask Javier to switch with me. First, though, could you pull your hair loose? I want to get a better idea of what I have to work with.”

I pulled the tie out of my hair and shook it loose, feeling a bit sheepish at its unkempt state.

Al looked unfazed. “Hmm. Yup. You are going to be amazed.” He grinned, left me with the robe, and went to get his partner.

Javier was a bit shorter than me, with hair so black it made mine look light. His eyes were a warm, golden brown and his face exuded enthusiasm. “You are going to love what we can do!”

I spent the entire day being swept to sea in waves of femininity, and I soaked it all up like a thirsty sponge – eagerly, joyously. A bit ironic, since my spirit guides were two men who were not personally attracted to the female form. Yet they were both highly knowledgeable about feminine aesthetics. They were masters at color and texture, knew what looked good and what didn’t, and had detailed ideas for how to achieve looks that suited any occasion. Amid a wealth of information, they also gave me ideas for achieving a look appropriate to the assignment Liz had given me, and walked me through execution of the ideas multiple times.

At no time did either Al or Javier ask me anything about myself, or why I wanted to appear as a woman. That was clearly one of their unspoken rules. I had asked for specific help in an area of their expertise, and it was no part of their business to find out why I wanted it. I was incredibly grateful for their professionalism, which put to rest my fears of disclosure.

It was 7:30 in the evening when Al and Javier had me stand in front of their full-length mirror and view their handiwork as a unified whole. I had seen each part, multiple times, over the course of the day, but I had not gotten the full impact. I was stunned, to the point where I just stood there, stupidly staring at my image in the mirror, my eyes wide, and my glossy red lips parted slightly in wonder.

I wasn’t pretty – my features were a bit too strong to pull that off. But Al and Javier had gone, instead, for beauty, and . . . succeeded? I couldn’t believe it. The subtle colors around my eyes, coupled with the mascara, made my deep blue eyes luminous. My skin looked healthy and smooth. They had given definition to my cheek bones and softened my cheeks with blush. My lips and nails were a rich red, somewhat darker than scarlet. The gloss made my lips appear fuller, moist . . . definitely kissable.

Black hair framed my face in soft curls and waves, sweeping over and down across the right side of my forehead from a left-of center part. Al had gone very light with the scissors to permit me to restore my normal style, but had trimmed the ends and achieved marvels with mousse, large curlers, and a touch of hair spray. He’d held a master class along the way so I had a chance of repeating the effect.

While I lacked my feminine attire, the softly-quilted, pale-blue robe that left my smooth forearms uncovered and shaved legs exposed from mid-thigh hid any male attributes and kept the focus on Al and Javi’s work.

I saw Al and Javier exchange a high five at my long and obviously rapturous appraisal of their efforts.

Then Javier began to chuckle. “Got you!” he said cheerfully.

I turned away from the mirror to give them both a huge smile. “You sure did! I said. Then I spontaneously gave them each an enthusiastic hug. I had never hugged another guy – apart from my dad, when I was little – but it felt completely right to show my appreciation to Al and Javi with a hug. Girls hug, all the time. And that vision in the mirror is all girl.

Finally, Al said, “Okay, now let us show you how to get everything off and set you up with a nightly beauty regimen.”

I felt like I had just been lifted to the top of the world, then pushed off the edge. I couldn’t help myself. Tears started to leak from my eyes, then gush. In a heartbeat, I was wracked with sobs, my shoulders hunched, my body shaking. It was crazy.

Al pulled me in close and held me wordlessly while I wept into his shoulder. I must have carried on for a while before he said, “It’s going to be okay, Candi. Come and sit down for a minute; Javier has made you some tea.”

I did as I was told, sitting with my legs together and folded to the side as I took shaky sips of tea. It helped. Eventually I was able to pull myself together enough to say, “Thank you. I’m so sorry; I don’t know what came over me. I’m afraid I’ve ruined all your beautiful eye makeup, Javier.”

Javi handed me a handkerchief. “Nothing to worry about, Candi. You now have the ability to restore that magic, whenever you want. That’s the ‘beauty’ of it.”

He looked at Al for a minute, and some wordless communication passed between them. Then Javier said, “Listen, Candi. A friend of ours in the trans community asked us to help someone, years ago. A young trans girl who had run away from her family at sixteen because they wouldn’t accept her. By the time we met Tina, she was eighteen and pretty close to the end of her rope. We converted our garage into a small apartment where she could stay while she got her life together. She was . . . she became . . . ” Javier choked up and stopped, unable to continue. He lowered his head.

Al picked up the story. “She was like a daughter to us. We loved her. She was kind, and giving, and just a beautiful soul. She was with us for almost three years. She got a job in a local coffee shop and was starting to put her life back together. But her family must have found her. We came home one day and found a note that said her past had caught up with her and she had to run fast and far. We haven’t heard from her since. That was four years ago.”

I looked from one of them to the other, then put my tea down. “I am so sorry. Sorry for everything that you’ve been through, and sorry for bringing it all back to you. This must have been so hard for you both.”

Javier looked up sharply, grabbed my hands and pressed them firmly. “No, Candi. Do not apologize. What we did today, that was not hard. We did it with love, just as we had for Tina. And for the love that we have for her. No. I only decided that we should tell you because we wanted you to know that, whatever it is that you are going through, we do understand. We don’t need to know the particulars. But we know how hard the world can be for transpeople. And we care. So if there is anything you need, anything we can do to help, we are here for you. You don't need to carry this burden alone.”

I found myself tearing up again. “But you don’t even know who I am,” I whispered. “I’m not Tina. I might not even be trans.”

“We don’t know what’s in your heart, Candi,” Javier responded honestly. “But we know what we’ve seen these past hours. And we saw how you reacted when it was time to go back to whatever it is you are going back to. Does the label matter? The world is a hard place for people who feel what you felt today. And, we want you to know that we won’t see that suffering and do nothing.”

Al put a hand on my shoulder “We don’t know who you are, Candi, and we don’t need to. But you should know who you are, and it seems like you are struggling with that. Like Javi, I don’t know if there is anything we can do to help, but we’re here if you need us.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you both so much.” I felt overwhelmed by their kindness – kindness I had not earned and didn't feel like I deserved. “I think I’ll be okay now. I just . . . todaydid feel wonderful, and I somehow didn’t want to let it go.” I gave both their hands a squeeze. “But I’d really better get going. I’ll be back though. Count on that.”

“Of course,” said Javier. “So let me start by showing you how to take off your makeup properly, then we’ll work on your nails.”

I pulled myself firmly back together and paid close attention while they showed me how to restore everything to its “original manufacturer’s settings,” then made my way home heavily laden with hair-care, skin care, and beauty products, as well as well-wishes from Javier and Al. It had been an expensive day, but I lived frugally, and I counted the money as very well spent.

I had a week left before I had my remote call with Liz. I still didn’t know what I was going to wear, but I felt more confident that I would somehow find a way to pull this off.

~o~O~o~

I stopped my recording, reviewed the tape, and uploaded it to the account I had set up for Candi. I couldn’t believe I was posting a no-doubt-about-it pornographic video to the cloud. This was crazy. Stupid. Reckless. But also thrilling, liberating. Sexually powerful.

I had a busy couple of weeks at work, trying to settle into my new assignment. Initially I had to absorb several preliminary studies we had done attempting to identify and quantify the market for the service the company was thinking about developing.

I also needed to think about how to design more detailed and comprehensive studies that would provide input to the design people, as well as sketch a critical path and timeline for each step of the process. It was fascinating. Management would do the risk/reward assessment once they had the data.

I had a lot of late nights, but made a point of checking the secure email I had set up to receive Candi’s communications at least once each night. Nothing. I was surprised; I had invited her to send questions. Maybe she didn’t have any. But maybe my request had scared her off.

I spent an uneventful weekend getting in some strenuous exercise, both doing a long run and hitting the gym. I hadn’t realized how much tension I needed to work through. Part of it, I’m sure, was just work. I was enjoying my new assignment, but I felt a lot of pressure to succeed. I had the strong sense that I had been given the chance to coordinate the project as a test of my abilities.

Corporate didn’t know quite what to make of me. I wasn’t your average junior executive – twenty-five, just out of college, limited life experience. I was older and . . . different. If I performed well, I might advance very quickly; if not . . . well, a big company has lots of places to park people, performing jobs that must be done but don’t require the skills of the company’s best and brightest. I was determined not to end up in a backwater, dead-end job.

But part of my stress was more personal. I was enjoying my exploration of sexual fantasies with Cam/Candi – enjoying it a lot. But at the same time, I had made it clear that it was not an exclusive relationship. I had broken up with Cam because our love-making was not satisfying for me.

What I really need, I thought, is a good, hard fuck. By the second Friday night since I had seen Candi in Philadelphia, I decided to do something about it.

So I found a hotel in the city, I found a bar in the hotel, and I found a guy in the bar who was looking for what I was looking for. As I said before, it’s not hard. He bought me a drink. We engaged in the requisite byplay. By the end of the second drink, we had made our mutual positions clear. I took him up to my room and pulled him in.

I know. It sounds crass, and casual. And exploitative. But Derek – that was my date-for-the-evening’s name, or so he told me – was honest about what he wanted, and so was I. Neither of us were looking for anything complicated. This was not about love, this was about sex, and we were both fine with that.

Derek was well-built – not in Jack’s league; few guys are. But solid. I had his shirt off quickly and was running my fingers across his hairy pecs while he reached behind me to pull down my zipper, dropping my dress to the floor and leaving me in nothing but my bra and panties. Since I had planned the evening with this in mind, these items were designed to be pleasing to a bed-mate rather than comfortable to wear. They were also not difficult to remove. I took care of that, while Derek took care of his footwear, pants, and utilitarian underwear. Praise be, he was well-endowed and ready for a rodeo.

Then it was no quarter asked, and none given, and he pounded me mercilessly. I had missed that in all the months I dated Cam, and even in our later sex play.

But it was four minutes, tops. He came, hard, and his powerful ejaculation triggered my own orgasm in response. But then he was spent, while I was still hungry for more. Damn! We cuddled for a couple of minutes, and that was nice as far as it went. But I wanted more, and I didn’t want to wait forever for him to recover.

I knew how to speed the process. It had always been a turn-off for me, so I had generally declined when Jack suggested it, at least after the first early years of our marriage. Another source of tension we had had to deal with. But if I wanted Derek’s cock ready for action and knocking at heaven’s door – and I did – nothing would turbocharge the process like a bit of oral attention.

I had the puckish thought that I needed to channel Candi. I imagined her slithering down Derek’s body until her face was properly placed. Imagined her massaging his balls, kissing his shaft, licking the sensitive ring below the head, all while gazing up into his eyes adoringly. Amazingly, the mental image kept me hot and wet while doing what needed to be done. His cock was sticky with both my juice and his, but I avoided thinking about the smell or the taste by fantasizing about Candi. I fondled, licked, and sucked Derek back to life, and in no time his large, throbbing member was once again buried deep inside me.

He might have managed eight minutes this time.

Between his cock and my fantasy-inspired waking wet dream, I had at least two more orgasms and a lot more fun.

I actually told Derek my first name earlier in the evening and after we were done, at his request, gave him an email address where he could contact me. Not an address that included identifying information. I assumed he was being polite. I didn’t ask for his contact information. I enjoyed the hayride, but was not looking for entanglements. Besides, that’s not how the game is played.

I was back at my own house Saturday morning, feeling far less tense. Seems like my body had known what I needed to do for relief better than my mind. I spent the weekend doing the sort of household chores I, and most people I know, put off. Raking leaves, cleaning laundry, scrubbing bathrooms, paying bills . . . you get the picture. By Sunday afternoon my “to do” list was noticeably shorter and I was feeling pretty damned virtuous.
 

The week after I met with Al and Javi was even more hectic for me than the one before it had been. I needed to lock in their lessons on makeup, nail polish, and hairstyling, which required practice every night. I needed to take some long, soaking baths with oils to improve my skin.

And I needed to work up the courage to buy a nice dress. Target would not do; I hadn’t seen anything there I liked for my assignment. And, Cam was demanding all too much of my time.

It was bad enough that I worked in Cam-mode from around 7:00 am until 7:00 pm. Cam also wanted to follow the Cardinals’ playoff games and the news from Capitol Hill, where it seemed increasingly likely that the House was going to impeach the President for an extortion scheme involving the President of Ukraine.

It’s not that I don’t share these interests; after all, I am Cam and Cam is me. But, as Candi, I have a set of priorities Cam lacks. He would set aside a game or the news if he had a deadline. And for me, my Sunday evening deadline was important. I needed time to find the right dress, and I wasn’t getting it. My frustration grew.

The Cards clinched the division series against Atlanta in game five on Wednesday (scoring a record ten runs in the first inning – how’s that, tomahawk lovers?), so I was finally able to get out to Bloomingdale’s in Pentagon City.

It was embarrassing, since I felt like anyone would see through my excuse of wanting to buy something special for a friend. It was also frustrating not being able to try anything on. I had to eyeball the size and hope for the best.

The embarrassment of searching for a pretty dress in public excised any indecisiveness. Based on my in-person observations and my online research, I wanted a dress; I wanted it to be pretty rather than either sexy or professional, and that I wanted something conservative on the top with a defined waist and a full skirt. There weren’t all that many choices that fit those criteria, which made the shopping go more quickly.

I found a light blue, A-line dress that appeared to fit the bill, with a floral pattern that spiraled dramatically down from the left shoulder, across the bust, turning at the waist to pass over the buttocks and around to the front of the skirt. I took my best guess on sizing, brought it to the desk and paid with a gift card.

The cashier said, “Oh, that’s pretty.” But she didn’t ask any questions or look at me funny when I said, “I hope my girlfriend likes it as much as you do, or I’m going to be in real trouble.”

She simply explained the store’s policy on returns and asked if I wanted a gift receipt.

I took her up on it.

When I got it home and tried it on, I was reasonably satisfied that I had chosen the right size, and I liked the way the dress looked on me. It was late, so I skipped my hair and makeup practice and decided I would try to put everything together the following night and figure out whether I needed anything else.

So when I got home the following night, which didn’t happen until 8:30 (Cam had to work even later), I attached my prosthetic breasts, put on my blue bra and panty set and my camisole. I passed on the nails, regretfully, but applied makeup, then brushed out my hair. I carefully stepped into my dress and zipped up the back, adjusted the waist and checked the mirror. Not perfect, by any means. But definitely on the right track.

I took everything off, scrubbed up, and went to bed feeling more confident. By Sunday night, I would be ready.

It’s just as well that I made so much progress on Wednesday and Thursday. Cam needed to work late Friday and Saturday, and the Cardinals played both days (losing both to the improbable Nats, and managing to score only one run in eighteen innings. Ouch).

But I had almost the whole day on Sunday. I spent it in my apartment, enjoying the feel of just being a girl for a while. I padded around in my charmeuse nightgown until late morning, having a light breakfast, doing some ironing (for Cam as it turns out) while watching the Sunday morning news shows and reading various online papers. I looked at fashion magazines and read beauty tips.

By the afternoon, I had managed to slow down my brain and put aside the many distractions that kept trying to grab my attention. I was just me, just Candi, spending a moment on an island of peace while the world spun crazily around.

I stood, slipped off my nightgown, and went into the bathroom to begin my preparations. I took a long, soaking bath with plenty of Javier’s skin-softening oils. Every bit of body hair had to go, and I learned to use the razor even on my underarms while re-Nairing my pubic hair. The only hair I had left – the stuff on my head – got the full treatment: shampoo and conditioner, mousse, and hot rollers, just as Al had demonstrated. I applied glue to my chest and attached my prosthetics, then slipped into my ice blue bra and panty set.

Makeup was next . . . moisturizer, cream, foundation, blush, eye shadow, mascara, lip gloss . . . layer after layer. Then I glued extenders on my nails and applied polish. The imperative of allowing my nails to dry properly forced me to sit and do nothing for half an hour.

I pulled Stravinsky’s Firebird up on my playlist and sat quietly, breathing deeply, eyes closed, every muscle relaxed, simply living the moment. The music captured me, pulled me in, infusing the moment I was in, this act of becoming, with profound, heart-stopping beauty.

I felt like something momentous had occurred, like a reordering of tectonic plates.

Whatever it was, it didn’t distress me. It was a strange, but deeply peaceful feeling. The moment passed – just a brief half-hour of a random day at the end of another busy week – but I knew, somehow, that I would always remember it.

~o~O~o~

I decided to treat myself to a nice, soaking bath before getting ready for the video call I had scheduled with Candi. Then I had a glass of dry rose, a bit of cold chicken, and a beet salad before getting on my power lingerie, boots, and makeup. I set up the camera, checked the time, and made the call, still wondering whether anyone would answer.

And she was there. Like me, she had set up an external camera, so that I was getting a head-to-toe image of her, while she was seeing my image in the phone she placed on a side-table next to her. She faced me like a goody two-shoes schoolgirl caught by the principal in some minor infraction: ankles and knees together, shoulders back (which did a nice job emphasizing her breasts), pretty hands together just below her waist, and eyes downcast.

The transformation was incredible. Candi was wearing a simple, sleeveless cocktail-length A-line dress with a crew neck in light blue with a floral print. The skirt was full and flared, and the waist gathered by a belt of lace in some stretchy fabric. She wore drop earrings and the white strappy sandals I had given her two weeks before.

But the real transformation wasn’t the clothes. Her makeup wasn’t just improved, it was subtle, appropriate and perfect at feminizing her features and highlighting her startling blue eyes. Her black hair was glossy and full, with waves and curls spilling over her left shoulder to the top of her breast. The contrast between her pale, pale skin, dark hair and incredible eyes gave her an exotic look.

It was very clear that her hair and makeup had been done professionally. For starters, her hair had been carefully and properly trimmed since the last time I saw her. And, the improvement in her makeup was more than a mere two weeks of practice would likely produce. On top of which, she had extenders on her fingernails, well-shaped and painted to compliment her medium-red lip gloss.

I was tempted to ask her about it, but decided not to. If she felt the need to get professional assistance in her feminizing efforts, all the better! I imagined Cam having to go into a salon and ask for makeup lessons . . . delicious!

I was almost too dumbfounded to engage in my part of the game. I wanted to gape at her, to exclaim, to tell her that she was stunning. As I forced myself to get a grip, she bent her head, pulled her skirt gently outward with both hands, and executed a deep curtsy.

“Good evening, Ma’am,” she said in a soft voice. “How may I serve you tonight?”

Intended or not, her act of submission immediately got me back in role – and turned me on.

I stayed in character and studied her look more carefully. It was not flawless, of course. If you knew where to look, and looked closely enough, there were still clues that she was not biologically female. But the overall effect was so good that it was very easy to miss the clues, and there was nothing that would make you look more closely in the first place.

"Well done, Candi. Now, give me a twirl.” I watched her execute the maneuver, flaring her full skirt, before returning to her original pose.

“I would like you to walk me through your choices for your evening with your girlfriends. What was the look you were aiming for, and how did you seek to achieve it with your clothes, hair, and cosmetics?” I was fascinated to see how well she was learning not just to look like a girl, but to think like one.

“Yes, Ma’am.” She said, then paused to think before replying, “I wanted to look good, to look successful and put-together, like you always seem to be. But I didn’t want something I might wear to work, and I didn’t want it to look like I was trying to be overtly sexy. I figured that if I was going out with girlfriends, I wanted to look, well, ‘girly,’ for lack of a better word. Approachable. Fun.”

I interrupted her. “Interesting. Did you think about what your girlfriends might be wearing? Would you want to look ‘successful,’ if maybe they aren’t?”

“Certainly not, Ma’am. I wouldn’t want them thinking I was trying to one-up them or anything. But . . . you said that I was taking them to the Folger and to dinner. The girls that I knew in high school – boys too for that matter – well . . . if they were the sort to be interested in a Shakespeare play, they are among the bright kids, the strivers, who worked hard and got out. Like I did.”

She thought a moment more. “I knew plenty of kids in high school that would be very uncomfortable going to the Folger for a play. I wouldn’t take them there. There are lots of other places I might take them in D.C. to show them around that I would be sure they would enjoy, and I would dress differently for that.”

“That seems judgmental,” I said, trying to probe her thinking.

“Yes, Ma’am. But practical too. I would want my girlfriends to feel comfortable and I would want to make sure they had fun. I might misjudge their interests, but I’d still try my best to get the fit right.”

Truth is, I couldn’t argue with her. I would do the same myself. “Go on. Explain how you chose to achieve the look you wanted.”

“I chose the dress because it’s a simple, classic style, but the floral print would be too pretty to wear in the office. Well . . . in my office, anyway. The dress doesn’t show too much flesh, and there’s nothing overly sexy about it. But I really like the way it looks on me. The color seems to work with my eyes, hair, and skin tone. I wasn’t confident that my breasts would look natural if they were exposed, especially in daylight, and the crew neck took care of any issue that way. The wide elastic middle pulls the fabric tight across the chest, so it makes me look a bit bustier.”

She blushed a bit, and added, “I like that. And it takes attention away from my shoulders, which are a bit wider than most women’s. The elastic also made me look like I had a bit of a waistline, and the full skirt made my hips and rear end look a bit more feminine as well. I don’t have much to work with down there.

“I thought the dress looked better with bare legs, and it seemed to go well with the sandals you got me. My legs looked better when I was wearing the sandals too – the heels really seemed to shape them.

“I went back and forth on the hairstyle. I wanted something that framed my face in a way that my normal ponytail doesn’t. But I didn’t know whether to wear it completely loose and symmetrical, or with some sort of braid, or off one shoulder would work best. I chose this style because I thought it looked fun without being too casual.

“Finally, I chose makeup that was a bit darker than you showed me two weeks ago, because I would expect to be out late. But nothing over the top. Again, I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard to be sexy. I just wanted to look good.”

I was impressed. She had clearly given it a lot of thought, and her outfit definitely looked appropriate for the assignment I had given to her. Moreover, she was right that it looked good on her. Really good. She was definitely thinking like a girl, following the same winding paths that BethAnn had mastered all those years ago.

Not that there weren’t some grounds for improvement. “I think that you’ve done very well, Candi. But let me give you a few pointers. First, have you thought about the weather?”

“Yes, Ma’am. It’s been in the 70s and dry all week, so I thought that I could still get away with a summery style, even though it’s late enough that I could go with autumn too.”

“But what if it’s cold when you get out of the theater?” I asked.

“I hadn’t thought of that, Ma’am,” she conceded.

“It’s often a good idea to bring a sweater of some sort with you, or a light jacket, when going sleeveless, especially late in the season,” I told her.

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Next, you are supposed to be paying for the play and dinner, right?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“How were you planning to do that?” I asked.

She looked puzzled. “With a credit card?” she responded, turning it into a question.

“But where will you put the card, Candi?” I inquired.

Then she caught on. “Oh!”

“Right.” I said. “Do you ever see women going out without a purse?”

“No, Ma’am, I never do.”

“Of course not,” I said. “A purse isn’t just for putting a wallet – and no, Cam’s wallet would never do. You need it for a lipstick in case you need to refresh. You need it for a pocket makeup mirror, for your keys, for tissues. You need it to carry a spare tampon, or a pack of condoms in case your boyfriend forgets. It’s an essential part of any outfit.”

“Of course, Ma’am. Sorry, Ma’am,” she said ruefully.

“Final point,” I said. “If you’re going to a theater and someplace nice for dinner, you would probably want to think about adding some accessories. A ring or a bracelet or two. Maybe an anklet if you’re feeling adventurous. Possibly a simple necklace. It’s not required, but it’s an easy way to dress up an outfit a bit.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Now," I asked, "are you ready for your next assignment?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” she said without hesitation.

“I have a double assignment this time. First, assume that you’re meeting a friend for a workout at the gym. The gym has male and female members and staff. When you get back from your workout, you are going to change and go clubbing. You will set up your equipment so that I can see you change from the first outfit to the second. Can you be ready in a week?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” she breathed. She sounded excited.

“Good,” I said. “Same time next week. Put it on your calendar.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Nice job, Candi. I look forward to seeing your continued progress next week.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

We said our good nights and I cut the video and audio feed.

Around forty-five minutes after I had ended the call with Candi, I picked up my phone and dialed Cam on his regular line, audio only.

“Hey Liz,” he said, picking up. “How’s tricks?”

I chuckled. “Just checking in. Any issues that you want to discuss? Any worries or problems?”

“No,” he said. “It was a very interesting assignment. I learned . . . well, I learned a lot.”

“I noticed! We’re still good?”

“Yes,” he answered, very positive. “We’re still good. And I’m fine, so don’t be worried on my account. Like I said last time, none of this is easy. But I’m absolutely enjoying it. How about you?”

I thought, That’s a relief. I’m pretty weird to get off on feminizing someone, but so long as Cam/Candi is enjoying it as much as I am, I can put that thought aside. I told him I was having fun with our voyage of exploration as well, and we left it at that. We kept talking for another forty-five minutes or so, though, going through the events of our work weeks, the Cardinals’ playoff chances, and the craziness in Washington.
 

The call came in right on time. Liz looked hot as always. She also looked a bit pole-axed, which was highly unusual.

I was secretly pleased – my appearance must have impressed her! But I thought it would steady her if I gave her a curtsy and figuratively showed her my belly. It worked.

She was quickly back in command, and had me give her a twirl and explain my fashion choices. The only real pushback she gave me involved my assumption that my high school girl friends would appreciate a look that indicated success, or be offended by it because they were less well off.

It was a bit hard to explain this one. In St. Louis, there were people who would go to Shakespeare plays, and people who thought that folks who went to Shakespeare plays were effete liberal elite snobs who looked down on real Americans. You would not take the latter group to a Shakespeare play, and it wouldn’t matter how much you might think they would enjoy it.

I knew both types of people. Some of the people in the second group were very successful and many weren't, but there weren’t a lot of unsuccessful people in the “Let’s do Shakespeare” group. So I dressed for success, as it were.

Evidently I managed to get that point across, or something like it. She moved on to give me pointers on some things I missed, which mostly involved appropriate accessorizing. I honestly hadn’t thought about that, and any girl would have automatically. Because I have no mental equivalent of muscle-memory where being a girl is concerned, I would have to reason my way to what any girl would know by instinct long before she reached my age.

I wasn’t dismayed. I just have to work harder, that’s all.

She gave me another assignment. Her specific choices – exercise apparel and something appropriate for clubbing – presented new and exciting challenges.

I was happy that she wanted me to explore more feminine adventures. There is something about me, about Candi, that feels whole and at peace in a feminine world. I applied a touch of perfume today, even though Liz could not appreciate it, but because it made me feel more whole. More complete.

I wanted the game to continue.

~o~O~o~

I was back in the office early on Monday with even more to do; the reward of good work being more work. The firm’s senior litigation partner, Eileen O’Donnell, had specifically assigned me to work on one of her cases that was already far advanced and likely to go to trial in March. That sounds like it should be a long ways away in October, but nothing could be further from the truth.

In big civil cases, litigators move the case along for years, going through endless motions and discovery. Career trial lawyers often parachute into the case a few months out from trial. They are the experts at presenting the case to the judge or jury, not necessarily the experts in the subject area of the lawsuit.

That was what Eileen was doing now, and I had apparently impressed the firm enough that she wanted me on the trial team. It was very exciting, but of course I had a lot to learn about a case that had already been in litigation for four years. And, I was still working on other cases.

However, while I was no doubt brought into the case because I had a good work ethic, Eileen also believed that it was important to take time out when you could, since there is no time out when trial begins. The firm had a set of tickets for game three of the NLCS, which was being held in our very own stadium. My Cards were going to avenge their ignominious losses in games one and two. Eileen gave me one of the tickets, so I would get to watch in real time!

Well . . . it didn’t quite work out that way. Strasburg was every bit as good a pitcher as Mad Max, and held the Cardinals scoreless through six brutal innings. We got one run off him in the seventh, but that was all, and the Nats scored eight. As a Cards fan, it was crushing.

But as a baseball fan, it was also exhilarating. Some teams, in some moments, are magic. The 2004 Red Sox, the 2016 Cubs . . . the teams that get counted out until, improbably, they are transformed and can’t be stopped. The Nats had that magic. Enough that the “Baby Shark” theme that the crowd picked up from Geraldo Parra’s walk-on music seemed like pixie dust. The stuff of dreams . . . and legends. My Cards were the victims that night, but not everyone gets to see that magic in their lifetimes, even if they watch a lot of baseball. And I got to see it, in person. That’s something.

I didn’t go to the following day’s game – one night out is all I could spare, and the firm had other plans for Tuesday’s tickets, so I live-streamed the radio broadcast while I worked late, wading through mounds of electronic documents that had been tagged as hot. The Cardinals were swept, and all of Washington that cared about such things rejoiced. Much of official Washington had other things on their minds, of course. Their loss.

Once Cam was finally willing to stop obsessing about baseball, I started to think about my next assignment from Liz. And honestly, while I was excited, I was also starting to get worried. I was able to finesse my last outfit, but my lack of hips, ass, and waist would be more apparent in women’s athletic wear, which was becoming ever more revealing.

I could pass, but I wanted to do better than just pass. I wanted Liz to be impressed. I wanted to look good.

I was also starting to panic about wandering into stores and buying women’s clothes. At some point the “buying for a girlfriend” line wasn’t going to work. I didn’t know what to do. I thought about shopping online but got paranoid about the paper trail. It’s almost certainly true that no-one would notice or care, but it sure didn’t feel that way.

I decided to reach out to Al and Javier again. They weren’t fashion guys, but they were in the business and had contacts. They might have ideas, and I could use some help coming up with hair and makeup ideas for my two looks. Besides, I wanted to tell them how my first effort had gone.

I called the salon and got Javier. He was delighted to hear from me and suggested that I come out first thing Saturday morning. I figured that I could do it, so long as I gave Cam a lot of time to work on Thursday and Friday. And probably Sunday as well. Sigh. He suggested that I bring some of my things, and they both wanted to see the dress from last week.

I got there around 9:00 and Al bustled me into the back room. Javier popped in. First I started to answer their questions, then finally I laughed, threw up my hands and shooed them out long enough to put on my prosthetics, slip on my bra and panties, put on the dress, and then run a brush through my poor hair.

They came back in and said I had made good choices.

I beamed. Something about these two guys made me feel very happy. We talked about my next assignment and my misgivings about pulling it off.

Al said, “Candi, they make padding to give a better feminine contour to hips, butt, and pelvis. It’s no different than wearing falsies. There are plenty of women who have your shape, more-or-less. They call it the ‘inverted triangle.’ But if you want to add to the attractions, so to speak, we know someone who can help. We would need to go to her shop, though. Are you ready for that?”

“Is it someone you know?” I felt a bit vulnerable.

“Oh yes,” Al replied. “She’s the woman who asked us to help with Tina all those years ago. She runs a boutique for crossdressers and transpeople a couple miles from here. One of us can drive you.”

I shook my head. “I honestly don’t know what I did to deserve you two. But I think I’d like to go. I’d feel a lot more confident if I looked a bit better down below. Just give me two minutes to change back into street clothes.”

“Why change?” asked Javier. "Just put on some morning makeup, do something easy with your hair, and go as you are.”

I was struck dumb. Panicked. “But I . . . someone might see me!”

“It’s possible,” Javi said reasonably, “but not very likely. Our car’s out back. Sarah’s shop has a back entrance too, and we’ll call ahead while you’re fixing your face. Anyhow, anyone who sees you, especially from a distance, is just going to think you’re a girl. At worst, they’ll think you’re overdressed for this time of day.”

I looked at them wordlessly, feeling helpless.

Finally, Al said, “Candi, if you don’t trust yourself yet, you should. You look fine. Your problem isn’t going to be passing as a girl, it’s going to be changing back and forth. Do it here, while you’ve got friends around to help. Or, do you want to stay in your room forever?”

That hit home. Some part of what I had felt last Sunday, that sense of a momentous change, echoed through me again. I discovered that I didn't want to sit at home, becoming Cam every time I went out.

What did I want, then?

I wanted to walk down city streets, feeling a breeze blow up my skirt. I wanted to feel the wind in my unbound hair. I wanted to browse through bookstores in a cute outfit, feeling sexy and alive. I wanted people to see me and think, “Damn, that’s a good-looking woman.”

Somewhere in my brain, Cam was quivering with fear.

I sat on him. “You’re right,” I said, feeling decisive. “Give me a minute to fix my face.” Less than twenty minutes later, I was walking into Sarah’s Transformations. It was time for me – not Cam, but me – to face the world.

Sarah was a bit younger than Al and Javier – maybe in her late 30s. She was short, somewhat stout, and had brown, shoulder-length hair and big round eyeglasses. She looked like a librarian, if such a profession still existed in Alexa’s world. She brought me in and told Al he could pick me up in an hour.

I gulped. I suppose I had thought he would stay.

Sarah noticed, and laughed. It was a nice laugh – clean and round and completely without malice. “You won’t need any protecting from me, Candi. Al knows that, or he wouldn’t have left. I owe Al and Javier, but I’d help you even if I didn’t. This is what I do. It’s my life. My ticket to hell, if you listen to preachers. So I don’t. Now, you look like you’ve got your girl shit going pretty well. What can I do for you?”

I told her what I was looking for, and she propelled me over to the side of her shop and showed me some specialty items. “This is what you want,” she said, “and I’m confident in the size, looking at you. But with all the underwear, if you try it on you need to buy it. I can’t sell it used.”

I understood, and took the package into the changing room. It was a form of panty, high waisted and cut on the bottom like boy shorts. It was padded back, sides and front with silicone of some sort. The fitting at the bottom puzzled me. I finally had to ask for help, red with embarrassment.

She told me it was a gaff and explained how to use it. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than tape.

When I had it on properly, I lowered my skirt and left the changing room to check my modified image in the mirror. It was a definite improvement.

The padding only slightly expanded my hips, but the little bit definitely helped to smooth the curve from thigh to waist. The front wasn’t noticeable at all in my dress, but the big difference was clear when I checked out my rear in the double mirror. The panties not only padded out my checks a bit, they also lifted and separated them. The whole effect, visible even through my full skirt, was a far more female shape to the rear, and a more dramatic delta from the small of my back to my ass. I was thrilled.

I bought three pairs of the supporting panties, all in the same nude tone.

Sarah said they were designed to prevent any visible panty line, and could be worn under a standard pair of panties. The third pair had somewhat more generous padding. I wasn’t sure if an outfit might require it down the road. It’s good to be prepared.

Sarah also pressed me to try on a pair of tight-fitting stretchy jeans, and a plain white blouse with three-quarter sleeves.

I asked her why.

“You told me you’re worried about buying women’s clothes when you’re dressed like a guy. Which I totally understand, by the way. Being trans is scary because there are people out there who get completely freaked out by transpeople.”

She looked at me from over her glasses, and became very suddenly dead serious and very intense. “Now listen up, ‘cuz this is important. Like, ‘save your life’ important. Your best defense is to look convincing as a woman. You need to blend in, look like any other woman wherever you are.”

Indicating the jeans and blouse, she said, “If a woman wants to go to a mall to buy something cute to wear at the gym, or a dress for clubbing, she’s probably going to be dressed something like this. If you go to the mall in the middle of the day, dressed like you are now, you’ll stick out. You don’t want to stick out, Candi. You don’t. Got it?”

I nodded, sobered. As Sarah’s words forcefully brought home, this was no game.

~o~O~o~

When Al picked me up, I was properly dressed in jeans that presented a pretty convincing feminine silhouette, a simple blouse, and a pair of flats. I had a couple bags of other goodies, and a small purse was slung over my right shoulder.

He grinned, shouted a ‘Thanks!’ to Sarah, and told me to hop in. “So, what’s next? Are you ready to go shopping, or do you want some face and hair work first?”

I grinned at his assumption, which I suddenly shared, that I would go out shopping dressed as a woman. “The salon first, I think. I want to make sure I’ve got my ‘A’ game on before I go out in public.”

We spent a couple of hours on hair and makeup lessons, going through ideas for tomorrow’s looks and settling on a look I would wear to go shopping. I had plenty of “sit” time while my hair or nails were setting, and most of the time Al, Javi or both were in the front of the shop with their other customers. But I got plenty of tutoring, too.

When I decided that I was presentable, I nerved myself to go out shopping.

Al offered to take me. But both of them were clearly busy, and if I was going to do this I needed to be able to do it on my own. So I paid for my hair, nail, and makeup work and lessons, and prepared to take another big step.

Al offered to let me borrow their car, pointing out that it would give me room to put my purchases, as well as a safe get-away if I should feel I needed one.

Thinking of Sarah’s words, I accepted.

Javi said, “Call if you need any help, understand? One of us will be there, if you need us.”

Then Al pushed me out the door, laughing and telling me to bring his car home in one piece.

And there I was. Uncaged! I checked the mirrors, put it in gear, and headed out. I decided to go to Potomac Mills, an outlet mall south of D.C. Far enough away and large enough that I could be anonymous. It was almost 1:00 when I got there, and I discovered I was starving. So my first order of business was to get some food. I found a place to get a pretty uninspiring salad and found a corner table where I could people watch while pretending to read on my pad.

People mostly ignored me. They had their own things going on, and there wasn’t anything about a twenty-something girl having lunch that would cause them to pause or look twice. I took my time over lunch, and felt my heart-rate and breathing go back to normal.

I can do this.

Eventually I got up, bussed my table, and went shopping. And did I shop! I went to a lingerie store and got a couple different bra-and-panty sets, as well as another camisole. I went to an athleisure store and found an outfit for exercising. Skin-tight; they all were. But my padding held up and looked genuine through the tight lycra.

I spent a longer time hunting for a dress to go clubbing in. I had a good idea of what I wanted, but dress shopping was fun! I went to several stores and tried on several things, just for the sheer sensual pleasure of it.

I ultimately decided to go with something very daring. Daring for me, anyhow, though not at all out of the ordinary in a nightclub. I had very little body fat, and even my prosthetics were modestly sized. If they stayed in place – and the glue had never given me any issues at all – I could wear a slip dress without a bra, so long as the neckline covered the seams of my breasts. I found one in a scrumptious deep red that did exactly that, having the added advantage of being short enough to highlight perhaps my best feature – my legs. I felt amazing trying it on, seeing the silky fabric fall loosely over my body, highlighting my breasts, making my hips and ass look more prominent, and even touching the slight feminine mound between my legs. I absolutely had to have that dress!

The dress required the purchase of some hosiery and appropriate shoes. The latter required quite the search, since I needed a style and color that worked. Then, mindful of Liz’s lessons last week, I went to find some inexpensive jewelry to dress everything up a bit.

I was getting a bit loaded down, so I decided to put my current purchases back in the car before doing anything else. I had a bit of an accident at the door, dropping a couple bags.

Suddenly, there was a guy at my side helping me pick them up.

I held down my panic, thinking of Sarah’s admonition to blend in. I managed to look him in the eye, smile and say “Thanks,” and mean it.

He offered to help me carry the bags to my car, but I said, “No, thanks, I don’t have far to go.” And amazingly, that was all there was to it.

After unburdening myself, I went back in and did some shopping for sundries. Hair pins and scrunchies. Some toiletries. Running shoes. A clutch. A belt. A coat that I could wear over my slinky dress. A simple above-the-knee black wool skirt and a few cute tops. Another nightie, with a coordinated dressing gown. Slippers.

It was all so wonderful, I couldn’t resist.

I finally managed to pull myself away, having done more retail therapy in one afternoon than Cam had done in the past nine years. I felt great. Liberated. I had spent the entire afternoon dressed as a girl, very much in public, doing very girly things, and no-one had given me a second glance.

I was feeling so euphoric that I called Al and Javier and offered to take them to dinner as a thank you, then drove back to their salon.

They laughed when they saw how much I had bought. “Where are you going to put all of this, Candi?” Al joked.

But, I realized with a sinking feeling, that actually wasn’t a joke at all. I had been so caught up in the fun of shopping that I hadn’t even thought of how I was going to get everything home, bring it to my apartment unobtrusively, or store it. Then there was the cleaning . . .

“I did kind of forget about the practical element,” I said ruefully. “But look, let me change into something more appropriate and we can go to dinner.”

So off we went, to a nice tapas restaurant, where we had good food and I had a bit too much celebratory wine. They were fun to talk to, and our conversation touched on food, and travel, where they came from, how they met. And baseball, and philosophy. We didn’t leave the restaurant until 10:00.

Al said firmly, “You’re not going back to town tonight, Candi. We can put you up for the night, and we can talk about how to deal with your loot tomorrow.”

I was too tipsy to argue much. But when they took me out to the garage, I stopped. “Are you sure, guys? I know this was Tina’s place.”

“It’s not a shrine, Candi,” Javi assured me. “We’ve used it for guests before. Besides, we’ve got no reason to think that Tina will come back.”

The garage apartment was very nice for one person. It had a full bathroom that was enclosed, and the rest of the space was an open floor plan that included a small, but full, kitchen, a living area, a double bed, and a long closet along one wall.

I gratefully made use of the facilities, cleaned off my makeup and changed into my new nightgown. (It was full-length, medium green, with a lacy v-neck and lingerie straps that went all the way down to the middle of my back. Not an especially practical garment, but I hadn’t been feeling very practical when I bought it). After covering it with the forest green dressing gown, I luxuriated in the feel of the two satiny fabrics sliding across each other and across my body.

I put on my new slippers, rummaged through the kitchen, found some tea bags, and then made myself a cup. Then I sat in the room’s comfy chair, tucking my legs under me, sipping my tea and thinking about the remarkable day I had just had. From a frightened rabbit living in secret to a woman reveling in her first shopping spree. I had had dinner, in public, with two friends, and had been able to just be a normal person – a normal female person.

This wasn’t just about getting sexually excited by the “forbidden fruit” of women’s clothes, much as I enjoyed them.

Nor was it just a sexual fantasy game I was playing with Liz, though I also enjoyed the game.
Liz would go her own way at some point, and the thought – which had devastated me only a couple months before – did not distress me. We enjoyed each other, and we were engaged in a mutual exploration that was yielding some unexpected fruits. But when the day came that she found a new interest, or decided she had learned what she needed to learn, the intimacy she shared with me – with Candi – would end.

What I was feeling was different. Less transitory; more fundamental. Something about who I am, my core identity.

Candi, I decided, was not simply going to disappear.

– To be continued . . . .

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

~o~O~o~

Monday morning came, and I had a heap of work on my plate. My new work assignment had more challenges and frustrations. The new service offering idea would also be the company’s first AWS cloud-computing application, and we wanted to build in enhanced analytics that executives could review on a dedicated cellphone app. As ideas for bells and whistles kept getting thrown in from my superiors, a sense of mission creep was setting among the team I was attempting to corral. I was having real difficulty working with some of the software engineers whose input on feasibility and design was critical.

It was bad enough that by Tuesday, I decided I needed to fly up to Ann Arbor to meet with them both in person. While the flight itself takes less than two hours, you need to factor in time to get to the airport, time getting through security, travel time from the airport in Ann Arbor to the company offices . . . and the return trip. A couple hour meeting meant an overnighter.

I was not pleased. I enjoy traveling – usually – but spending two days for a meeting that shouldn’t even be necessary rubbed me the wrong way. The alternative, however, was pulling in my boss to to effectuate an attitude adjustment in the software group, and that did not seem like a good career move.

The Pittsburgh airport always feels like it was designed to carry more traffic than it does, but that improves it from the perspective of a passenger. A bit like Pittsburgh itself, I guess: it has the bones – the infrastructure and amenities – of the more populous city it used to be. But for those of us who live there, there’s a bit of elbow room. I like that. Even though the airport was built after the city’s peak population days, it follows the pattern.

Security gave me little trouble; they seldom do. A quick look at my boarding pass and I.D., a smile and I was off to the gate. Power suit today: Navy blue, conservative tailoring, dark hose, well-polished pumps with a three-inch heel. Every hair in place.

I spent the flight in business class with my laptop open and my look intense. “Coffee please. Black,” I said to the cabin steward. My tone was polite, but I was not smiling.

The older gentleman in the seat next to me got the hint and didn’t bother me.

The reaction of both the cabin steward (“Right away, Ma’am”) and the older gentleman (silence) pleased me. Not because I’m antisocial, but because my “don’t mess with me” vibe was clearly working. I would need it.

Two and a half hours later, I was in a conference room with Terrence Eliot, the Lead Programmer on the Project, and Dave Spencer, the Technical Lead. Terry and Dave, the terrible two. They spent considerable time and effort explaining, in tones that indicated a certain amount of relish, why the project was ill-conceived.

“Look,” Terry said, “I know everyone up the ladder wants to migrate to AWS, but all of our legacy coding is C#/ASP. Just let us stick with Azure, and we can cut down a lot of the time estimates!”

“We’ll have a real problem with latency on AWS because of our legacy code, and the service will flop if pages load too slowly. No one will want it.” Dave was animated.

“But you can clean up the legacy code so it doesn’t have those issues,” I reminded them. Again.

Dave shook his head. “We can, but it’ll take time – more time than corporate is allowing.”

“I told you before, I can get you additional resources for that.” I’d heard this complaint before, too.

“You’re talking offshore resources. Liz, they’re a pain in the ass to manage. You want it done right, you need to let us do it!” Dave’s voice was pretty damned close to a whine.

I listened carefully, but they weren’t saying anything new. We had been over this on the phone, and other engineers at the company had offered suggestions for addressing the problems they had raised. But – while Terry and Dave never said “No” outright – they kept finding a million reasons why every suggestion was flawed.

“I know you don’t have a background in software engineering,” Terry said. “So it’s hard for us to explain why these requirements are driving us crazy, or why the time estimates we’re giving you are so long.”

I thought to myself, How would Cam handle this?

Cam was understanding. He had a knack for listing, for understanding both text and subtext. For getting people to collaborate. People trusted Cam. Somehow, they knew that they could. I wanted to channel that. Wanted it bad.

But I’m not Cam.

“I didn’t come up here to listen to the same crap I’ve been hearing from you two since I was assigned to this project,” I said crisply. “I’m here because everyone else has run out of patience with you. I need you to understand that I’m your last shot.”

“Oh, come on,” said Terry. “Frank likes our work just fine.” Frank Jones was their line supervisor.

Dave chuckled. “And Frank will back us up, if it comes to it. I’m telling you that corporate is way off base here. The timeline you’ve budgeted for this will need to be adjusted – and I mean, substantially adjusted.”

I looked at them levelly. “Mr. Peroni was very explicit. He wants this job pushed, right now. He wants this ready for a third quarter 2020 launch, come hell or high water, and he believes it’ll have a significant impact on our valuation if – but only if – we’re first out of the gate.

“The problems that you’ve flagged are real and I can get you resources to overcome them. As I’ve said before. Repeatedly. But your attitude can’t be fixed with additional resources. He’s already approved your reassignment to the Baton Rouge team working on Project Overhaul. I can convince him to change that reassignment order – but you need to show me why I should.”

“I don’t believe it,” Terry said. “Frank won’t allow it, and besides, we’re already familiar with the project. You want to slow it down, go ahead and change horses!”

I shook my head. “I’ve shared the project requirements with two of the senior software engineers in the Baton Rouge team that I worked with on another project. They think the technical problems are more manageable than you two do, and they’d like to work with me again. That, and they’re pretty bored with Project Overhaul.”

“You’re bluffing,” said Dave.

I smiled. A broad, feral smile, of the sort a tigress might flash upon seeing a lame deer. “You’ve made my day.” I got up and walked briskly to the door.

They sat like lumps. Maybe they expected me to turn back.

I didn’t.

I’d gotten about half way down the hallway towards the elevator bank when I heard the door open behind me.

“Oh, fine,” Terry said. “Come back and tell us what you need.”

I kept walking. I got to the elevator and pressed “down,” while I listened to Terry hustling in my direction. The elevator pinged and the door opened.

“Wait!” Terry stuck his hand in the elevator door to keep it from closing.

“I’d rather not,” I said, stepping into the elevator and turning to face him. I looked pointedly at his hand. “On balance, I’m perfectly content with where we left things.”

Terry looked uncomfortable. “Look, we’re just telling you there are big problems here, that’s all. No one seems to believe us. They just say, ‘push,’ like that’s all it takes. It doesn’t work that way!”

“This isn’t about how ‘it’ works,” I said. “It’s about how you work. The company understands you’re two of the best software engineers we’ve got. They know what you can do – when you put your minds to it. That’s why you're in this office, and why you get first crack at the newest and most innovative projects. But this isn’t an academic exercise. They can’t wait until the two of you decide to pull your heads out of your asses.”

He nodded grudgingly.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m going to walk back into that conference room, and we’re going to try this again. I want you to go over everything we’ve already discussed. But this time, I don’t just want you to come up with problems. I want to hear ideas for overcoming or working around them.”

“Fine!”

“No, Terry. ‘Fine’ doesn’t cut it. No more foot-dragging. We don’t have time for that. It’s my job to remove obstacles – reasonable ones – and I can be your best ally in getting resources. But the attitude’s got to change.”

“Cut me a break, Liz. I know you want to look good for the boss, but you don’t have to bust my stones.”

“Grow up!” I snapped. “Do I want to look good? Sure. You think the Company doesn’t have the equivalent of Project Overhaul for me to work on? I don’t want to be on that track any more than you do. But I promise you this: you’ll get there first, even if you take me with you.”

For the first time, he smiled. It wasn’t a particularly attractive smile, but it was real. “Okay. I’ll buy that. Come on back. Let’s see if we can’t keep us all in the good graces of our corporate Lords and Masters.”

I’d take it.

My meeting with Terry and Dave stretched to four hours. They suggested flying the offshore leads to Ann Arbor for a week-long conference; I think they expected me to balk at the cost. But it was a good idea, and well within the budget Sal Peroni had approved. Agreeing demonstrated that I was serious about the resources the company was willing to commit.

After the meeting we all went off to Frita Batidos for Cuban food and Mexican beer. They regaled me with war stories – which tended to lean into the theme that corporate had a tendency towards wild and ephemeral ideas that would get lavish attention for a short period, until the next fad caught the attention of the C-Suite crowd.

It was useful information, and I filed it away under the heading, “Life’s not fair.” It isn’t. You deal with it however you need to, and move on. So I was pleasant, and listened, and laughed at their jokes. But not too hard.

I flew back the next morning in a much better mood.

My trip to Ann Arbor was just one of many steps I had to take to get the project on track and keep it there, and Dave and Terry weren’t the only difficult personalities I had to deal with among the System Architects and the Quality Assurance, Database, and Network Leads who were all essential to the project. But I put my head down and powered through the long hours and the long meetings.

Fortunately, I was able to break away on Saturday for an excursion that Tish had planned. While she enjoyed our usual outdoor activities as much as any of the gang, Tish is more of a culture hound. She talked us all into going to the Oakland neighborhood to visit the Carnegie Museum. I managed to lighten it up by insisting that we pay a pilgrimage to “The O” for cheese fries, dogs and Moosehead. The Original Hot Dog Shop used to serve legions of Pirates fans back in the days when the team played in the heart of the city at Forbes Field. Back when Roberto Clemente was on his way to winning twelve golden gloves playing right field and the Bucs were magic.

But it was back to the grind after that. I hadn’t heard anything from Cam – or Candi – so again, it appeared that he – she? – felt no need to clarify the assignment. Given how busy I was, that made my life much easier. But I was intensely curious.

What will she come up with this time?

I woke up early Sunday morning to the sound of birds singing – not something I had heard much in my D.C. apartment! I lay in bed for a bit, enjoying the novelty of the sounds and the peacefulness of the early morning. Not that Al and Javier lived out in the country – their living space was above their salon, and the area was certainly mixed use. But it was Sunday morning, and inner ring suburbs are still suburbs.

Eventually I slid out of bed – it’s hard to do anything else in a sexy nightgown! – put on my dressing robe and slippers, and took a closer look at the garage apartment. The floor was covered in vinyl plank designed to look like weathered wood. The walls had been sheetrocked and painted a very pale yellow and the ceiling, again sheetrocked, was white. The result was that the apartment had a clean, light and airy look, which made the most of what had originally been a very utilitarian space.

The closets that ran along one wall, with the exception of the last one, were empty. I was surprised, since good storage space generally gets used, one way or another. The last of the closets in the bank held a washer-dryer. For the space, the unit was very well appointed.

I wondered whether Al and Javier would consider renting to me. My living situation was not the best, given my current extracurricular activities. If I wandered in looking like Cameron Ross Savin, Esq. and popped out looking like Candi, people would eventually notice. Especially when I was using the communal laundry in the basement of the building.

Someone with a thicker skin would have said, “Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.” But I didn’t want to have to deal with it. Besides, some anti-trans nut might decide to make trouble for me one way or another. Sarah warned me to blend in. It was good advice.

I decided that I would ask Al and Javi once they were up and about. It was early, the salon was closed on Sundays, and it was their day to sleep in. I needed to spend some time plotting my day. Cam needed several hours for work today, and my laptop was at my apartment. So, I would need to change back into Cam mode. But, I had the strong feeling that Al and Javier were my friends, not Cam’s. I wanted to talk to them looking like me. Which is pretty crazy, I suppose. Bother.

Take a shower? Umm. I would need to prep for my 7:00 session with Liz back at the apartment, and it probably made sense to hold off on the shower until it was time to get ready. Grrr. I hate starting a day without a shower.

I was beginning to lose my good mood, and decided that wouldn’t do.

I put on my downstairs padding and one of my new bra and panty sets, pulled on my stretchy jeans, picked out a top, and tried on my new sneakers. I brushed out my hair, put it in a high “girl next door” ponytail (which somehow looked completely different from Cam’s low-and-tight style), and fixed my face. It was still only 7:00 am, so I made myself another cup of tea – coffee did not appear to be in evidence – and read the online Post.

I was deep into Jen Rubin’s analysis of the latest Democratic presidential primary debate (spoiler alert - she thought moderate Amy Klobuchar outperformed more liberal candidates), when Al knocked on the door to the apartment.

His eyes lit up when I answered the door. “Aren’t you looking awake and alert,” he joked. “I saw your lights were on. Why don’t you pop up for a coffee?”

I agreed gratefully.

Javier was still showering when we came into the apartment above the salon. “I’m the early bird in this household,” Al said, “but Javi’s no sluggard. Even he doesn’t tend to sleep past 8:00. I was going to pull together some berries and yogurt for our breakfast. Would you like some?”

“That sounds perfect,” I responded.

Al busied himself in the kitchen for a couple of minutes while I sipped his excellent coffee, a companionable silence between us. He was setting three bowls out when Javier came out of the bathroom combing his still-damp hair.

“Good morning!” he said, cheerfully and with great energy. Javi is a naturally boisterous soul.

We sat at the table in the kitchen to have breakfast and engaged in some pleasant chit-chat. When we were all finished with the food and were going for seconds on the coffee, I broached the issue of whether they might be willing to let me rent their garage apartment.

They were enthusiastic; apparently they had been thinking about renting it out for a while.

Al explained, “After Tina left, we kind of avoided it for a while, then stuff started migrating out there so that it would be out of the way, either here or in the shop. It got to be kind of messy. Sometimes a friend or family member would stay over, and we would push all the junk into the closets, but then it would just get messy again.”

“We decided to clean everything out last spring so we could rent it out, but things got busy at the shop and we just didn’t get around to it,” Javi said. “I guess we were kind of dreading interviewing potential tenants and everything that goes with being landlords. But we already know you’re our kind of people.” He grinned.

I was touched that they were so sure about me after such a short acquaintance. But the same was true on my end, I suppose. We had only met a week before, but I was really excited at the prospect of being neighbors.

I asked them what they were thinking about for rent, and was pleased to discover that they wanted less than I was paying in Adams Morgan. The total amount of space was about the same, though it was laid out very differently, and for my purposes, better. But I had been paying a premium for being closer to downtown.

I would have a longer commute, but they weren’t far from the College Park Metro station and it was a straight shot to my usual work stop at Gallery Place (Metro Center was closer to the office, but it was seldom worth changing trains to the red line rather than walking). I could generally read on the train into work, though it would be harder to get a seat in the evening.

We talked about logistics. I decided I would give up my current place at the end of the month. I needed to find room for my desk and work chair in the new place, but the rest of my furniture was rented and Al and Javier preferred not to give up the furniture that was already there. A win-win all around.

“You can start moving stuff in any time,” Javier said, adding, “just for instance, we’ve got half of Macy’s in the trunk of our car right now . . . . “

We all laughed, but it was a real relief not to have to worry about hauling all of that loot back into town. I would need some tonight, but the rest could stay here.

With all of that settled, we popped downstairs and unloaded the car. I put my new treasures in the closet and the dresser. They looked right there. I had been a visitor in Cam’s apartment. This place was mine!

But Cam would have to visit. Starting, unfortunately, now. I needed to get back into Cam mode, get back to D.C. and get some work done. I thanked Al and Javi profusely, made them take a rent check for the remainder of this month and next month, and got a key from them. Then I kicked them out so that I could do my reverse transformation.

Having seen me break down over this just a week ago, Javi gave my shoulder a big squeeze before he left. “Hang in there, kiddo.”

I heard them walk over to the external staircase and back to their apartment, but I was frozen in place. I started to shake, and felt tears welling up again. I had such a wonderful time yesterday. I wanted that feeling to last forever. I wanted to be me, in my own place with my own friends . . . .

~o~O~o~

I finally had enough, and got my brain in gear and my body moving. It felt like this transition was getting harder and harder, which was alarming. There were things I needed to do, as Cam, and there was no sense crying about it or wasting time.

I carefully removed Candi’s makeup and nail polish (fortunately she hadn’t bothered with extenders yesterday, though they would be needed tonight), stripped down, and removed both my padded panties and my prosthetic breasts. I put on the clothes I had worn yesterday and pulled my hair back into my low-and-tight ponytail. The loose end of the ponytail still had a fair bit of feminine curl in it, so I clubbed it like a good eighteenth century gentleman. I was no George Washington, but it would do.

I checked my appearance carefully and decided it was okay. I would never look like a manly man, but no one would mistake me for a girl. I put the items I would need for tonight’s show-and tell – the athleisure wear, two pairs of shoes, the new dress, coat, hosiery, accessories, my pads and prosthetics – into two unlabeled bags, and walked off to the Metro.

I was back in my apartment by around 10:30, which was a bit later than I had hoped. I was struck, as I sat down and fired up my computer, by how dark and uninviting this space was compared to Al and Javier’s garage apartment. The new living arrangement would be a big improvement.

I worked straight through until five o’clock, pausing only briefly to have some soup around 1:30. It wasn’t quite as many hours as I had hoped to work over the weekend, but I stayed very focused and was pleased at the progress I made over the six hours and twelve minutes of time I was able to bill.

Around 5:00 I started getting ready for my 7:00 with Liz, starting with a bath, putting on my padding, putting mousse and curlers in my damp hair, doing my nails, listening to some music while they dried, then getting into my first outfit. It was a pleasant and relaxing ritual. By 7:00 I was ready to turn the reins back to Candi – and Candi, of course, handed them directly to Liz.

Candi blew me away, starting with bright pink, high- and broad- waisted yoga pants with a matching sports bra that had a multi-stringed back that showed through her lime-green mesh racerback top. Unlike the preceding week, she had clearly found a way to pad her bottom, thighs and even front to present a more convincing feminine profile. This turned out to be the result of her acquiring a skin-toned, high-waisted padded panty and gaff. With her new acquisition, the front of her yoga pants showed a perfect feminine mound, gently arching from her belly button to her slit. It was as revealing as most yoga pants, and the triangle drew the eye just as it would on an attractive woman.

For clubbing, she chose a deep red slip dress and matching stilettos, which was far more daring than I had expected. She said that the top of the bodice was just high enough to cover the seams of her prosthetics, so – while she appeared to be showing some cleavage – the actual exposed skin was her own.

While she had gone with a high, girlish ponytail for her gym appearance, she selected a sophisticated updo for her eveningwear. I was very surprised to see her effect this transformation, and to change from her everyday makeup to a bolder, darker evening look, all by herself. It was obvious to me that she was getting help, but she was also learning her lessons. Like a good girl.

I gave her a new assignment and we signed off. As before, her submission to my instructions, and the thought, care and imagination that went into the execution of them, made me hot. I felt strong. Powerful. And that feeling of sexual power, of dominance, sent waves of pleasure through me. I needed release . . . and my vibrator was close at hand.

I spoke with Cam later on, and he confirmed that he/Candi was enjoying our play every bit as much as I was. And he reported, once again, having no issues. He wanted to continue.

As I prepared myself for bed later that evening, I thought more about my interaction with Candi. She was clearly eager to show off her new skills, and seemed to be psyched about her next assignment.

But was there more going on? I didn’t really buy Cam’s notion that personality is just a matter of constructs, as he’d described it that morning in Philadelphia. He seemed to think that both “Cam” and “Candi” were just different faces he could present to the world. I know who I am, and I’m no “construct.” There is a “real” person in me. And there’s one in Cam too.

But, is that real person a man? Or a woman?

The session went much like the preceding week. Liz was impressed with the choices, liked the effect that Candi achieved with the new padded panties, and was surprised at the daring slip dress. I think she didn’t believe Candi was doing her own makeup until she watched her switch between outfits.

It was apparent that Liz was enjoying the sessions as much as Candi. She provided a new assignment for the following Sunday’s show and tell, but I – and more importantly Candi – had developed enough confidence in our ability to meet the challenges Liz was providing that Candi could wait until the weekend to shop. Which was good, because I was in for a very busy few weeks.

I got in touch with my building management and my furniture rental store. My rented furniture was going to be picked up first thing on Wednesday the 30th, and the management company would do a walk-through on October 31st, after which I would give them my keys.

Moving sounds stressful, but you have to understand that I hadn’t really had time to acquire a lot of stuff. The plus side of not having a life is that you can pack up and go with little fuss or muss. The only furniture I was bringing to my new place was my computer desk and chair. The bulk of what I had to move was just clothes, and they would transport easily enough.

Other than those arrangements, I spent all day every day from Monday to Saturday hard at work, getting into the office by 7:30 and generally not leaving until 10:00 p.m. We had to exchange lists of trial witnesses (fact and expert) and exhibits with opposing counsel by – natch – November 1.

I was working with two other associates, a paralegal, and a secretary, all under Eileen’s overall direction, to cull the 1,800 or so hot documents down to the 100-200 that we might realistically introduce into evidence at trial (knowing that more would be cut at trial itself). This required fitting each potential piece of evidence into an outline of the elements of proof for the case, as well as determining how we would get each document into evidence.

Our work also required coordination with the junior partner who was finalizing our list of witnesses and drafting proposed jury instructions. Everything took intensive coordination and concentration, and everyone from Eileen down to the secretary was working very long hours. Fortunately we all got along, and there wasn’t any drama or friction. Eileen was very good at running a trial team.

We made a huge amount of progress over the course of the week, and were essentially done with the document selection by Friday. We would need a couple more days to finalize and double-check the lists, but we were confident at that point that we would meet the deadline without any trouble. I still came in and worked on Saturday, but I left the office at 3:00 to go out to Maryland to pick up the car (Al suggested I borrow it for the move) and start packing my stuff.

I took three trips to bring everything. Two for the clothes and sundries, one for the desk and chair. My desk was actually a table that could be set for either standing or sitting. The legs detached, which made it possible to transport in Al’s car with the back seats down. It was about 9:00 when I was done.

Almost nothing was left in my old apartment. I figured I would get my stuff set up in my new place tomorrow morning, then pop back to Adams Morgan to do a cleaning so that I would not have to spend any time on it the following week.

I was standing in the middle of my new apartment, feeling grimy, tired and hungry, trying to decide whether I could just collapse or whether I really truly had to get something to eat before going to bed, when a pizza delivery guy showed up at my door with a piping hot pie, courtesy of Al and Javier. What a godsend those two are!!! They figured out that I would be hungry, and that I wouldn’t be up for company.

I sent them a big “Thank you!!!” by text, but managed only three slices of pizza before I was incapable of doing anything other than closing my eyes. I collapsed and slept ten hours – more sleep than I had managed to get in a long time.

I woke up feeling a bit drunk with sleep and as grungy as I had been when I went to bed. So I took a shower and washed everything, even knowing that I would need to wash my hair again later in the day. That’s why they make baby shampoo. I felt much better after that.

I hemmed and hawed after getting out of the shower, but finally decided I would do my business in D.C. first before unpacking and setting up the new apartment. I put on some old jeans and a worn T-Shirt that I didn’t mind getting dirty, thought about adding a fleece and decided against it since it was likely to hit eighty degrees. Then I jogged over to the Metro Station and got off at Columbia Heights, the nearest Green Line station to Adams Morgan. My apartment was only a ten minute walk from there, tops.

I spent about two and a half hours getting the place completely clean and ready for the walk-through. As a farewell to the neighborhood, which was blessed with many good ethnic eateries, I went out for a falafel sandwich. The metro got me back to my new home by about 11:00 a.m.

I kicked off the clothes I had worn to clean the old place, put them together with the grimy clothes I had stripped off after yesterday’s move, and threw them in the wash (bliss!!! I have a washer-dryer!!) Another quick shower got rid of the grime, and I was able to give Candi the rest of the day.

She did the shopping for the most recent assignment, and then got the apartment properly set up. Candi and I each had a side of the closet. I had half the drawers and she had the other, though I had a sinking feeling that would change over time. Adding the desk required some rearranging of the furniture, but in the end everything fit. We even left plenty of space for the weekly show-and-tell, which again went well.

I had another good call with Liz later in the evening after Candi had retired to the back of my consciousness. Liz and I mostly talked about work, since we were both very busy and wrapped up in new projects.

From the sounds of it, she was having more trouble than I was, but at six years my senior, she was in the position of having to manage a project and coordinate the work of other – sometimes more senior – team members. It’s a very different kettle of fish, and I sympathized with her struggles. Eileen appeared to manage everything almost effortlessly, but after thirty years of practice and an enviable reputation in the trial bar, there weren’t too many people left who underestimated her – and even fewer who tried to give her any shit. I have no doubt that she had to learn in the same hard school Liz was currently pushing through.

~o~O~o~

We had established a pattern of Sunday evening “show and tell” with Candi, then a short call with Cam. And, every week, Candi seemed to improve, to become more believable as a girl, as a woman.

Candi dressed for a beach party (open-backed one-piece with wrap-around patterned skirt), for a baseball game (tight Cardinal red tank-top with snapped bottom, short cut-offs and a Number 4 jersey that came down past her shorts on the back side), for a country fair (belted cotton shirt-dress with three-quarter sleeves), a romantic dinner (silky halter-topped dress with a long skirt, slit up to the thigh,and a gold chain belt), a cocktail party (classic LBD). . . .

Everything I threw at her, she seemed to eat up, getting better and more practiced with each new effort. I was having a harder and harder time finding any fault with her efforts. Truth is, she proved to be a natural at makeup and hairstyling. I was seeing an incredible talent blossom that had never had a moment in the sun before now. I’d like to think I was still better – I had a lifetime of experience, after all. But there is no question that she was becoming very, very good.

It was time to think about our next face-to-face. Our video time was great, but we both wanted to reconnect in person. Our weekend in Philadelphia had been both fun and powerful for both of us, and we wanted to catch some of that magic again.

I also wanted to have a better sense of how Cam was doing. He always said he was good, but I wanted to make sure. Can anyone compartmentalize that completely? Really?

Cam agreed to come over to my house Friday afternoon after Thanksgiving, saying that a day back in St. Louis with his parents was about all he was up for. That worked for me. My parents were hosting most of my siblings and me, but that was just a drive down to Mt. Lebanon, where they currently live. Easy peasy.

I knew that Candi was spending a lot of time getting ready for our weekend sessions. For me, though, I had nothing much to do in advance, and I spent the weeks fully absorbed in work. But, I kept my social life alive, and my work gang managed to get in a hike, a kayaking trip, and dinner at my house. No October baseball in Pittsburgh, of course.

I got a surprise email from Derek, my well-built not-quite one-night stand. On a whim, I reconnected with him on a couple of occasions. Although our initial encounter did not indicate it, he turned out to be more adventurous in the sack than I had thought, making some fun suggestions that sometimes worked (taking me in the shower was HOT) and sometimes didn’t (nailing me to a dining room table was decidedly uncomfortable). Prior to Candi, my own sexual experiences had been fairly tame; I was enjoying the experimentation.

Derek, mercifully, did not take things – or himself – too seriously. We enjoyed what worked and laughed at the ones that didn’t work. We kept it light. This was not love, this was just some fun sex with another person who was game to try new things. No commitments, no strings. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Derek was married, but I made no inquiry. We did not have that kind of relationship.

As usual, I saw my parents from time to time. They knew that I had been dating a guy for a couple of months and that it hadn’t worked out. They hadn’t asked to meet him, I think trusting that I would bring him when and if I thought the time was right.

They were happy that I appeared to be moving on from my failed marriage. Fortunately, my sibs had plenty of offspring (for whom I babysat from time to time), so I got no parental pressure in the breeding department. I think they knew that just wasn’t who I am, anyway. They were proud of my accomplishments, like parents are, and they loved me without reservation. But I don’t think they had any illusions about me.

I didn’t discuss Candi with anyone (except Cam, of course, but for these purposes he doesn’t count). First, I said I wouldn’t. Second, while I was enjoying my dominance games, it’s not a part of me that I’m especially proud of. My friends knew Cam, and when the time was right I hoped we could all get back together again. But Candi remained a secret.

I gave a lot of thought to the Thanksgiving weekend. I had largely played our prior encounter by ear, but this time I planned it out. I was going to push Candi through some more barriers – ones that would give us both some real pleasure. Following our “video game” time on November 10, I recorded another video and sent Candi some materials that would make the weekend more fun.

Then I did some discreet online shopping. Our next encounter was going to involve more toys.

My life was becoming a blur of long days, short nights and too many missed meals. We made our November 1 deadline, but the next step was reviewing Defendants’ witness and exhibit lists and preparing motions in limine to try to exclude proposed exhibits or testimony in whole or in part. This was, once again, done in coordination with David Parr, the younger partner who was working on our objections to the other side’s proposed jury instructions. The deadline for this filing was December first.

I was spending almost all of the time in Cam mode because of work, but I did make sure that I was using Javier’s skin care products and treating my hair better and more gently than I ever had before.

From bedtime on Saturday until after the 7:00 video call on Sunday, Candi had use of the time share we appeared to be operating out of this one body. Candi time usually started with a long, soaking bath on Saturday evening, a chance to sleep in silky nightwear, a morning visit with Al and Javier, some shopping, practicing with hair and makeup, and of course her time with Liz.

The improvements in Candi’s feminine appearance weren’t as dramatic as before, but they were improvements nonetheless. Increasingly, Liz found nothing to criticize. Candi would model her outfits and looks, explain her reasoning for what she had selected, make changes to go to the second outfit and look (explaining as she went along). Then it was time for new instructions.

Candi’s time with Liz was always intense – even when she was just explaining her fashion choices, the feeling of sexual tension was palpable. The rest of Candi time was exciting and fulfilling, filled with a sense of self-discovery and exploration, but also deeply relaxing. It was incredibly restorative, though it was always hard for Candi to let go and let me return to Cam mode for the work-week.

As Candi, it seemed like I was more attuned to the physical world – to sights and smells and tastes, to the way people walked, to the drape of their garments, the subtle variations in color and texture between similar fabrics . . . . As Cam, on the other hand, I was more focused on abstractions, on concepts and principles, logic, and structure. I sometimes thought that between the two of us, we might make a fine human being. But the world is not constructed for my benefit!

In the middle of all of this, I got a call from Mom asking about my plans for Thanksgiving. I hadn’t really given it any thought. Although I had always returned home for Thanksgiving and Christmas when I was in law school, and had done the same last year, things were a bit hectic at the moment. I decided I had better check with Eileen before making any plans.

She assured me that I could take the whole weekend. “Everyone’s been working very hard, and I’m comfortable we’re on track. I’m hoping that everyone will be able to take that weekend off; family’s important. But you’ve earned the four days if anyone has.”

I really liked Eileen, and it was good to know that she was pleased with my work.

With that said, I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to go back to St. Louis for four days. My parents, God love them, are dyed-in-the-wool Evangelical Christians and they share the very conservative views of most people in their church. My siblings and I had all departed from both their political and religious orthodoxy. We continued to get along, in no small measure because Fi was working in Boston, Iain was doing the arts scene in New York, and I was being the corporate tool in D.C.

Holidays, however, provided potential friction points. Everyone used to understand and abide by the unwritten rule that discussions of “politics, religion, and the Great Pumpkin” were off-limits. Unfortunately, in recent years every topic was tangled up with politics. Even the weather was just fodder for the culture war. I’ve always been the peacemaker in our family, but keeping the peace – and even holding my tongue – was becoming increasingly difficult.

Sis and the Fi-ancé were splitting the holidays this year, spending Thanksgiving with his folks in Boston and Christmas with my parents in St. Louis. Iain was always a wild card. He might come or not, but probably wouldn’t give a definite yes or no until the day before. At which point he would find a cheap bus and spend a day making the trip.

An odd soul, Iain. I hadn’t seen him in a while and would like to, but there was no question Thanksgiving would be rockier if he were there. Putting Dad and Iain in the same room was a bit like injecting nitrous oxide into your engine.

Of course, if Dad or Mom had the slightest inkling that I was spending my spare time learning to think, dress, and act like a girly girl, Iain’s issues would be the least of their concerns. I couldn’t imagine how incandescent the two of them would be. And hurt, and disappointed. But mostly mad as hell.

They were big on hell.

So I figured I would just go out for the day itself and return to D.C. on Friday. However, in my late-night show-and-tell debrief with Liz on November 10, she asked if I – or more specifically, if Candi – would like to join her in Pittsburgh for the duration of the weekend.

I was more than game, and Candi was positively eager. We agreed to skip our next two Sunday meet-ups.

Liz said, with an evil tone, that she was going to come up with some special instructions for Candi to work on in advance of our meeting. Knowing how devious Liz can be, I was sure they would be something.

I booked an open-jaw flight from D.C. to St. Louis on Wednesday evening, a flight from St. Louis to Pittsburgh at 10:00 pm on Thanksgiving, and a flight from Pittsburgh back to D.C. Sunday at 10:00. I had to scramble since I had left it so late, but I was able to get the flights I needed, albeit at a higher price than I would have liked.

I received Liz’s instructions in a video the next day.

Yup. This was going to be intense.

~o~O~o~

I finished editing the video that I had put together for Candi, then ran it one last time to make sure that it was right. I liked it.

It started with me in my Merry Widow, as usual. “Hello, Candi. You have learned your first lessons well, and it is time for you to face some new hurdles. Now, observe.”

My image was replaced by a video clip of a girl at a cheerleading tryout. She was wearing a skin-tight lycra outfit in patterns of royal blue, white, and black that covered her ass and the very top of the thighs, the midriff, bust, and upper chest, with long sleeves and a back that was open from just short of each shoulder, scooping down to the mid-back. The girl was performing a routine with a variety of elements involving high kicks, spins and jumps – like the herky, toe-touch, the side hurdler and the tuck – arching of the back, tossing of the head . . . standards for the discipline.

The video cut back to me. “Men love cheerleaders, Candi, and why shouldn’t they? Through their performances, Cheerleaders make virginal love to their fans in the stands. I expect Cam drooled over cheerleaders back in high school, didn’t he? But I doubt he had a clue how hard it was to perform their routines.”

The video returned to the cheerleader doing her thing, but my voice continued. “We’re going to correct that little defect in your education, Candi. You are going to put together your own cheer routine and try out for my cheer squad. I’ve uploaded five other cheer tryout videos for you to study. Put together a three-minute program and rehearse it. While you are here, you will put on the very outfit this girl is wearing – I have one – and you will dance, prance, spin, kick, and twirl for me.”

The video cut back to me. “I was the queen bee of cheerleaders once, Candi, and you will have to show me that you have what it takes to be my little bitch for a whole football season. That’s job one.

“Your second task will be less physically demanding, but it might be harder in other ways. I am going to have you do a photoshoot. You will study the following pictures, numbered one through six. You will learn them by number, so that when I call for a pose by that number you will assume it. These are pictures from photoshoots by models. Some you would see in any fashion magazine. Others poses are more overtly erotic.”

The video showed a picture of a young woman in a floral print dress sitting on a low bench. She was leaning back a bit, supported by her left arm, slightly cocked. Her head was turned to the left, and she was looking off camera. Her right hand was raised to loosely cup the right side of her head and neck, further back from the face. Her right leg was set on a riser at an acute angle, while her left leg was only loosely bent and extended past the riser. “Pose one.”

This was followed by the image of a girl who looked like she was walking but wasn’t, right leg extended, left leg behind, feet at an oblique angle. Her left arm was at her side; her right arm was holding a jacket over her right shoulder. Her head was cocked to the left and her hair was blowing out to the left side. She looked like she was about to greet a friend on the street. “Pose two.”

Pose three was a woman standing with her weight on her right leg, her right hip out and left leg extended, both hands gently resting on her out-thrust hip, shoulders cocked but face straight to the camera. Pose four was a young woman leaning slightly against a tree, one hand holding a few strands of her long hair against her cheek, her head slightly bent and a come-hither look on her face.

Pose five was the classic SI Swimsuit look. Pose six was more hard core: a woman reclining on a couch, wearing barely a wisp, fondling a breast with one hand and fingering herself with the other.

I ended the video with instructions to practice the poses and expressions every night, and to bring some of Candi’s prettier things for the photoshoot.

I uploaded my video, as well as the other cheerleading tryout videos, to Candi’s documents, then shut down the computer. I meant to push Candi, and the exercises I had selected would definitely do that. But I had a couple of other surprises for my pliant pupil which I intended to spring on her.

I went down into the basement, where I had a cedar-lined storage closet, to find a bridesmaid dress I had worn to a wedding a couple years back. And, on a shelf in the back of the closet was a cardboard box which contained my wedding dress, theoretically preserved for posterity by some sort of vacuum-sealed plastic. What a complete waste that had been! Well, I finally had some use for it, so I was glad that I had been able to retrieve my things from the house I had shared with Jack after he had agreed to the divorce.

I dropped both dresses off at a dry cleaner.

I had been a cheerleader. A prom queen. A blushing bride. All of the things that supposedly good, healthy, red-blooded American girls would want to be. Other girls had envied me. And yet, in the end, the game just hadn’t been worth the candle. Not for me, anyway. And when it all came crashing down, almost four years ago, I had survived. Not because I was pretty, or knew how to display my physical attributes to good effect, though I was and I did.

I survived because I wasn’t really anything like those stereotypes I had tried so hard to become. I was tough, smart, and no-nonsense. I got shit done and I didn’t bitch and moan about how others didn’t work as hard or accomplish as much.

The world should have space for a woman who is hard-headed and sexually dominant. It should, correspondingly, have room for a guy who is sweet, soft-hearted, submissive and obedient. But in the world where we live, tough women are vilified as man-hating bitches, and submissive men are treated with scathing contempt.

But was I any better? I wanted the world to accept my toughness, but I couldn’t imagine being in a long-term relationship with an effeminate male. Though I hated to admit it, even my continued strong friendship with Cam was based, in part, on his willingness and ability to sublimate his submissive side into a separate, female persona. So who am I to complain?

The world should be a better place, and I should be a better person. But you don’t just get to choose what attracts and repels you. Not me, for sure. Not Cam either. Candi certainly appeared to be enjoying the submissive, feminine role.

Candi might hit a point where that was no longer true, but she wouldn’t be the first girl to discover that a woman’s life isn’t an unending string of romance and pretty dresses. Unlike biological girls, Candi could always go back to being Cameron Savin, a man in a man’s world.

For my part, I needed to make sure my relationship with Cam continued to be based on trust and compassion . . . and that our sex games stayed within those guardrails as well.

So, having made my peace with my arrangements for the Thanksgiving weekend, I dove back into work.

I went to bed thinking about Liz’s videotaped instructions for preparing for our post-Thanksgiving adventure, and set the alarm for a preposterous 4:30 a.m. I had gotten to the point where I could prep for our Sunday video calls on Sunday itself, but these instructions were going to require more. Much more. And Candi would need at least an hour, hour and a half, each morning and evening. I really didn’t know where I could steal the time. Certainly I would eliminate any television news or sports.

I was just going to have to get by with less sleep. Make that even less sleep, while minimizing the adverse consequences of sleep deprivation.

Well, I wanted to be a trial lawyer, and I know that in the middle of trial the lawyers get very little sleep. I would just need to think of this as training. Of a sort.

The next two-and-a-half weeks passed in a blur. From the time I left for work until the time I walked back through my door, I was Cam, fully in lawyer mode. The trial team was working hard on the motions that were due right after Thanksgiving. I was mostly doing online research on Westlaw, finding the best caselaw and feeding it to my colleagues. Our judge had been on the bench for over twenty years, and I was able to find lots of his own decisions that had a bearing on the arguments we wanted to make.

I got to draft some of the pieces as well, and – while my senior colleagues always had very helpful comments, suggestions, and improvements — for the most part they thought my arguments were sound and persuasive.

I was typically in the office by 7:30, leaving about twelve hours later. Meals were hurried; I kept myself going with power bars, mixed nuts, and protein shakes when I didn’t have time for anything else. Whole Foods had some good home-style soups without all the garbage, and they were a mainstay for dinner. Sometimes the team had pizza while we were shopping arguments together, but more often we were in our separate offices, working on our individual pieces, with Eileen coordinating everything.

I met one-on-one with Eileen several times each week, going through my pieces of the puzzle and making sure we continued to be on the same page as our arguments were hammered out and her view of the case developed. I really enjoyed working with her and was learning a lot.

She decided that the case needed my undivided time and worked to shift my other assignments to attorneys on other cases who were less busy than our trial team. That was a huge relief, and dramatically improved my ability to stay focused on the work needed to meet our December 1 deadline.

As soon as I walked through my apartment door at the end of the day, I gratefully stepped back, not to emerge until my shower the next morning. I let the work go, forgot about the case, and gave myself to Candi.

Candi would typically slip her prosthetics into a bra, put on one of her panty gaffs and a tank top and a short skirt. She would have some soup or maybe a pre-made salad, then spend an hour or so working on the poses for the photoshoot. This required careful study of the reference photos – memorizing the precise positions, but also thinking about the image the model and the photographer were trying to project. Sweet or sexy, alluring, aloof . . . how was the look achieved? What combination of pose and expression?

Candi practiced in front of a mirror until she was able to reproduce each look exactly, then change the look by small alterations, especially in how she held her head, the precise line of her mouth, and the expression in her eyes. This proved captivating and it took discipline to be in bed by 11:30.

Each morning she was up at 4:30. Breakfast was generally an egg, a toasted english muffin, some cheese, and a big glass of water. Then she put on her yoga pants and sports bra and got to work on the cheerleading routine. After watching all of the videos and trying as many of the elements as she could manage, she put together a routine, recorded and viewed it, then decided which elements to keep and which to jettison.

Then she focused on practice, practice, practice, beginning and ending with at least ten minutes of stretches. She continued to review the practice videos, tweaking her execution of the elements. By no later than 6:30 she hit the shower, at which point I began to re-emerge and get my brain back into my day job.

I checked in with Eileen around noon the day before Thanksgiving, but I knew we were in good shape. Everything was already finalized, so everyone was taking off for the long weekend.

“Nice work these past weeks, Cam,” she said with a smile, getting up from her desk and sitting with me at her small conference table (which was, as always, covered with neat piles of papers). “How are you feeling?”

“I feel pretty good about where we’re at,” I said. “I definitely think we’re going to win most of these evidentiary issues. I’m confident we should defeat the challenges to the documents we want to introduce. Some of our arguments to keep out some of their documents are a bit more of a stretch, though, as you know.”

“About my assessment,” she agreed. “But my question was more general. How are you liking trial work? For that matter, how are you liking the firm?”

“Well,” I answered, “I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do when I got out of law school. I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve done here so far, but being part of this trial team has definitely been the highlight. And I’m really looking forward to getting into court.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Eileen replied. “Trial work isn’t for everyone. It’s not even for most litigators. But I think you’ve got the knack. I’lll make sure we get you some opportunities to present oral arguments on some of the issues and motions you’ve worked on. Judges usually appreciate it when we give younger lawyers a chance to stand up in court, and the client in this case will be good with it.”

“That would be fantastic,” I said with genuine enthusiasm and surprise. We talked for a couple more minutes then I left to go home and pack.

I needed a larger bag that would definitely need to be checked to fit all of Candi’s things; my wardrobe required comparatively little space. My flight was leaving from BWI and I arrived early, anticipating long Thanksgiving lines. I checked my bag and, as expected, spent forever getting through security. I discovered that my flight was delayed when I got to the gate, and the departure time kept getting pushed back. The plane was there, but the crew was coming in from another flight and they were delayed.

As the guy at the terminal helpfully explained to all of the tired and frustrated passengers, it’s against airline policy and FAA regulation to fly without a pilot.

Funny man.

We did get off the ground eventually. Because I had bought my ticket so late, I was in a middle seat. Everyone was tired and grumpy and no-one felt like talking.

Suited me just fine.

We landed at 11:45 pm. I picked up my bag, got an Uber and arrived at my parent’s house around 12:30. I couldn’t remember being more exhausted. The house was dark, but the door was unlocked and I knew which room I was sleeping in. I had texted Mom earlier so she knew I would be late. I parked my suitcase, stripped down to my shorts, and collapsed into bed.

~o~O~o~

It was probably just as well that I had put playtime with Candi on hold for a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, because I had to do some traveling to put out a few fires and meet some outside marketing experts who might be helpful. My boss continued to be very supportive and enthusiastic about the project, but he was also distant, overseeing numerous other projects. It was important that I be able to handle things at the granular level. I made another trip to Ann Arbor and one to Austin.

By the time the end of November rolled around, I was very ready for Thanksgiving break. Per my Mom’s instructions, I picked up a couple nice bottles of wine for the adults and a selection of soft-drinks and juices for her seven grandchildren that would be present.

I showed up early to help out. I’m not that into cooking, but any good little housewife can peel potatoes, clean silver, and put out place settings. It was good to chat, since we hadn’t spent a lot of time together in the prior month or so. Dad was outside making the yard presentable.

I have four siblings; going in order, Diane, Jim (Jr.), Brittany and Thor. (Yeah, Thor. I know, but I think at kid five, my parents just decided to have fun with it. Most of his classmates actually were a bit jealous. It is a cool name, even if it’s a bit tough to live up to the image). I slide in between Jim and Brittany.

Diane has three kids (Shelly, Dot, and Kat) and Brittany and Jim have two each (Eleanor, or “Ellie”, Maura, Jim (III), and Kyle). Thor and his wife Rachel weren’t coming because she had just given birth to their first; little Ingrid was just three weeks old and they were keeping her home for a bit. Rachel had gone through a pretty tough pregnancy and delivery, so she needed some time to rest.

The house was full to bursting. It has a huge finished basement, without which I don’t think it would have been possible. There were tables in the dining room, in the family room and in the basement so that there would be seats for everybody (folding chairs for a lot of them – big families have to make do!). It was wild, chaotic, and noisy. Everyone said that the turkey was the best ever, which they always say, and the ham was fabulous. I had apparently not lost my skill at peeling spuds.

The weather had turned chilly – It was only in the forties for a lot of the day – so any games had to be played in the big room downstairs, and only after the meal was consumed and the clean-up complete. The kids and the older grandkids mostly handled the clean-up while Mom and Dad played with Kat, Ellie, Maura, J3, and Kyle downstairs and away from the crockery. Thanksgiving is a set piece and all of us know where everything goes. The clean-up went quickly, sprinkled with cheerful conversation.

Brittany popped into the kitchen while I was washing wine glasses, holding a vase that must have been a new acquisition. “Hey, Beth, any idea where this goes?”

“I’ll break it over your head, if you don’t call me Liz,” I mock-growled. I wasn’t actually mad at her, but it was still necessary to give reminders, now and then.

She leaned against the doorframe, smiling. “Sorry about that. Old habits. ‘Liz’ suits you, in a way that Beth didn’t really. And I never got the whole ‘BethAnn’ thing.”

Uncomfortable territory. “I was who I thought I needed to be,” I said shortly.

She cocked her head, considering me for a moment, then came over and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Well, I’m glad you don’t think you need that anymore. I missed my crazy big sister!” Before I could think of a suitable response, she slipped out of the room.

There were kid’s games downstairs and football for those who cared to watch it in the family room on the main level. The latter activity drew Dad, Diane, Jim (Jr), Dot, and me, as well as Tom and Drew (Diane and Brittany’s husbands, respectively). We chatted between the fun parts (which take up a surprisingly small portion of a football game, IMO) and caught up a bit.

I haven’t really seen much of my siblings since I moved back to Pittsburgh. Their lives are very much wrapped up in their work and their kids. That’s especially true of Jim, whose wife died in a car accident around the time I was getting my divorce. He’s a devoted father, trying to give the kids everything they could have gotten from two parents. Unsurprisingly, he looked tired and older than Diane.

After the game, we broke out the pies, made coffee for those who wanted some, and started to disperse. When I left, Diane and her crew were still there; the rest had departed earlier. It had been a lovely day. But I’ll confess . . . I was really looking forward to the next two days.

Cam arrived at around 10:00 a.m., so I had plenty of time to get ready. I knew that he would be arriving (rather than she). So like last time I layered my apparel to present a more conventional look when he showed up, with the top layer being a sweater over a pair of khakis and canvas boat shoes.

Cam got dropped off right on time, trailing a much larger suitcase than usual, which made me grin.

But he looked tense, almost grim, and bone tired. On top of which, where he had been lean, he now looked positively slender. He must have lost ten to fifteen pounds since I had seen him last, which was weight he didn’t have to spare. I hadn’t noticed it when video chatting with Candi, probably due in equal measure to the distorting effect of the tech and the way women’s fashions flatter more slender forms.

I asked, somewhat hesitantly, “Cam? You okay?”

He just shook his head. “Yesterday was rough, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

I had him sit down in the living room and brought us both a coffee. “Look, what I’ve got planned for today is pretty involved. If you are not up for it, that’s okay. We can just relax. Remember, I’m your friend . . . first and foremost.”

I said it, and I meant it, although deep down I would have been disappointed if my plans for the weekend were derailed. But Cam was my friend, he was clearly in a bad place, and I wanted to help if I could.

He just gave me his classic half smile. “Thanks, Liz. I really appreciate that. Honestly, though, I think the best thing for me right now is whatever the fuck you’ve got planned. I need my head on a completely different planet. If you can make that happen, you’re a Goddess. I mean, more than you usually are. Arch-Goddess or something.”

This speech was even more surprising, since I almost never heard Cam swear. “You’re sure?”

“Abso-frickin’ lutely,” he said with uncharacteristic savagery.

He was right – he definitely needed to be in a different headspace. So I stood up, looming over him in his chair, pulled off my sweater and dropped my pants. Underneath, I was wearing a black leotard with long sleeves, deeply scooped at the back and neck, with royal blue nylon gym shorts. I had a silver whistle on a chain around my neck. I pulled my hair back severely, put it in a scrunchy, and kicked off my boat shoes.

“Okay, then,” I said, in a voice that would make any coach or drill sergeant proud. “If you think you’re ready, then get off your fucking ass and get ready. Take a shower. You reek. Make yourself pretty. I assume you brought your own makeup. You’d better have. Your tryout uniform is on your bed. You’ll need at least an hour, since you don’t want your nails looking like something you’ve been using to clean out the fucking garbage disposal. I don’t want to see you out here until you are all stretched out and ready to perform. YOU GOT ALL THAT?”

He practically leaped out of his chair, the grim look gone from his face, saying, “YES, MA’AM,” before hauling his bag, his sorry ass, and his coffee down the hall and into the guest bedroom.

I hope this will be the right thing for him right now.

I woke up Thanksgiving morning to the sound of shouting. Not, unfortunately, far-away shouting. It was in the house. Two male voices, enraged.

I thought, Shit. Iain made it home after all. I opened my bag, pulled out fresh underwear, jeans, socks, and a t-shirt, then closed the suitcase and locked it. I threw on my clothes, quickly clubbed my hair and left the bedroom.

The older and younger sea lions were once again at each other’s throats. Mom was looking on and doing nothing. Dad was screaming something about socialists and witch hunts. Iain was laying into him about the Ukraine investigation and how the President was a treasonous scumbag.

I tried to intervene, though I doubted it would help.

It didn’t.

“Don’t you try to defend him,” Dad screamed at me. “He’s been nothing but a fucking sponge for years, then he comes into MY house and lectures ME about politics. I am DONE, you hear me? He can go sponge off his pansy friends from now on!!”

While Dad’s attention was on me, Iain was punching things on his phone. With Dad’s last comment, Iain turned almost white with rage, went right up to Dad and punched his forefinger into Dad’s middle-aged gut. “Pansies, is it?” he growled. “I don’t know one gay guy – not one – who couldn’t take you apart with his bare hands, old fart. Including me!!!”

Dad stepped back, hollering, while Mom staggered and sat down heavily, looking almost comically stricken. “Gay?” she asked, weakly.

Then Dad practically spat, “Get out! Never set foot in this house again! You are no son of mine!!!”

Mom just sat there.

“Do something!” I pleaded with her.

But she just looked at me like I was crazy.

I turned back and tried to intervene. “Dad!” He just shoved me aside, effortlessly.

Iain said, “Buh-bye then, asshole!” He popped into his old room, grabbed the backpack he had evidently brought with him and charged out the front door, which he attempted to slam, not realizing I was following him.

“Iain,” I shouted, and took off down the stairs just as an Uber showed up.

Dad yelled after me, “Don’t you follow him!”

I looked back incredulously, almost falling on the front steps.

“If you go after him, don’t bother coming back,” he threatened.

Iain was getting in the car. I ran over and hopped in before he could stop me.

“Get out, Cam.”

“No.”

“I don’t need your peacemaking, dammit. There is no peace with . . . with . . . THAT.” His voice dripped with disgust as he pointed to the house where we had both grown up.

“Got it,” I said. “But you aren’t leaving here alone today, so deal with it.”

He glared at me, then growled “Oh, fine.” He looked at the driver, who was not enjoying any of this, and said, “You can bring him too.” We drove off, and I saw several neighbors watching the scene and gossiping together.

Now THAT would improve Dad’s mood. Not!

The Uber driver made record time to the Greyhound station, where he gratefully dropped us off and sped away.

“Buy you a coffee?” I asked my older brother.

“Why not,” he said resignedly. “I can’t think what else I’ll need to do to get rid of you.”

So we sat at a tired formica table on equally tired plastic chairs, drinking old coffee from perky styrofoam cups that would outlast both of us, preserved in some landfill. “What happened?” I asked, more to get him talking. I didn’t know every particular, but it was pretty clear what had happened.

He confirmed it. “Dad started on the whole ‘witch hunt’ bullshit last night when I got in. He was pissed that I wouldn’t rise to the bait – I just said I was tired and went off to bed. Which I was – you should try spending a day on a Greyhound.”

He sat for a moment, thinking, then took a pull on the truly execrable coffee. It didn’t seem to faze him. “Mostly,” he continued, “I was just tired of it. Tired of the lectures, and the self-righteousness, and the constant judgments. He is always comparing me to Fi. Even to you. You’re successful. You make money. You’ve got futures. Blah, blah, blah. He’s got money too, and look how he turned out. And I’m sick, tired, and done with hearing him regurgitate Fox News talking points. When he started on me again this morning, I gave him the argument he wanted. With interest!”

“You sure did.” I paused for an awkward moment before working up the courage to ask, “You’re gay?”

He barked a laugh and grinned, pleased with himself. “Nah. I just said that because I knew it would make him lose his shit completely.”

“Well, mission accomplished.”

He gave me an angry look. “Listen, don’t you dare tell him I’m not gay. Don’t. Not him, not Mom. I’m in New York theater. Half my friends are gay, and I’ll be good goddamned if I’ll listen to any more of his insults about them. Besides,” he added more quietly, “it’s not like I didn’t try it. One of my friends was wasted, he made a move, and I decided I would see whether it was my thing.”

“And discovered it wasn’t?” I asked.

“Yup," he replied. "I didn’t think I hit that way, and I don’t. But if I did, I wouldn’t be ashamed of it.”

We sat quietly for a couple of minutes. He drank his coffee.

I didn’t. “What are you going to do, Iain? Do you need a place to stay?”

He chuckled. “No way, Spam,” he said, using the nickname he had bestowed on me at age four. “No way in hell can you convince me to live in a cultural desert like D.C., surrounded by government moles and MAGA goons. Not. Happening.”

I tried to say something, but he cut me off.

“Not. It’s good of you to offer – it really is. But I’ll be fine. I’ll come up with something.”

There wasn’t much to say after that. The fact that Iain was sharing the secrets of his sex life with me did not move me to reciprocate. I love my older brother, but he’s a hothead and can never be trusted with a weaponizable secret. I hadn’t actually offered to put him up, and had been struggling with whether I could manage it while keeping Candi under wraps. His response to my simple question got me off that particular hook. I knew better than to offer him money. At the end of the day, we didn’t have all that much to say to each other.

I watched him get on the bus, then got myself an Uber and returned to my parents’ house. When I got to the front door, my bag was sitting on the stoop, and the door was locked.

This is stupid. I rang the doorbell. I knocked. I pounded. I went around to the back and pelted the windows with pieces of gravel. Nothing. They were home – smoke was coming from the chimney and the TV (tuned to Fox, natch), was loud enough to hear from the door. But they were not going to answer.

I discovered that, like Iain, I had taken enough. The most patient of the three siblings, the peacemaker, the youngest child who always tried to make everything right, was ready to throw in the towel. I was deathly short on sleep, I was emotionally ragged, and I was sick of the whole soap opera. “Screw you all,” I muttered.

I found a room at a hotel near the airport and collapsed. I got up to get dinner brought up, thought about calling Fi and decided it could wait. Let her enjoy her time with her fiancé’s family. Hopefully it was less dysfunctional than ours.

I set an early alarm and rolled into bed. Ironically, given how tired I was, I only slept fitfully. I wanted nothing more than to get on a plane and leave my family and my history behind me.

Fortunately, that’s exactly the weekend Liz had arranged.

I managed, barely, to get on the Pittsburgh flight, get to Liz’s house, and have a short conversation with her without blowing a gasket or collapsing from mental strain. After which, I closed the door to her guest bedroom. Leaned my back against it.

I closed my eyes and whispered, “All yours, Candi. All yours. I just can’t.”

~o~O~o~

Candi practically skipped out of the bedroom around 11:15, completely in cheerleader mode. The uniform was sleek and form-fitting, and the form inside it looked damned good. She had her hair up in a high ponytail that looked very cute while remaining practical. Her makeup screamed “wholesome.” She looked youthful, fresh, and sweet as a friggin’ peach.

“Hi, Ms. Talbott!!” she enthused. “Ready for my tryout!!!”

Whatever I’d been expecting, it wasn’t this vision of cheerful just-past-adolescence. Knowing how I had brought this about – how I had transformed that tired, grim man into this delectable girl, was like a shot of wake-me-up to every erogenous zone I had known about and a couple that I hadn’t. Damn! I want to just eat her up!

But I had a job to do. Today I was the Bitch Queen, the one who decided who got to be one of the coolest of the cool, and this girl in front of me was just a supplicant like all the rest. She would be tested. She would be pushed. She would prove herself, or she would not be one of the chosen ones.

I simply growled, “Follow me, then,” and brought her downstairs. I have an all-purpose space in the lower level that I had cleared of other stuff for today’s work, so she had about twelve square feet of space with – unfortunately – a nine-foot ceiling for her routine.

I pointed at the center of the carpet and said, “Start there when the music begins playing.”

She went to the center and stood with her right foot straight forward, the left at a ninety degree angle with the knee bent and toe touching the floor, hands on hips, head turned slightly off-center and a winsome smile on her pink lips. Her shoulders were back and her breasts pushed forward, looking positively perky. Honestly, she is too much!

I hit the music – something generic and synthesized, with a pounding beat – and watched her strut her stuff. Just as I had anticipated during my drive back from Philadelphia, the sight of Candi prancing around as a cheerleader, shaking her tits and her cute little ass at me was driving wave after wave of pleasure through my core.

She did various jumps with scissor kicks. She threw her arms high and wide while arching her back and shimmying her torso. She did a little dance with her right arm extended and her wrist held limp, left hand on hips. She shook her hair and cocked her head. She twirled. She tried high leg kicks. Finally, she finished with a leap that ended with her down on one knee, her arms outstretched, head held high, and a happy, innocent smile on her face. You could practically hear her shouting, “Go team!”

She would not have made the cut. Not my cut, anyway. I would give her high marks for presentation. Her choreography and pacing were fundamentally sound and on top of that, she exuded that nearly impossible mix of earnest innocence and flagrant sexuality that gives a cheerleader such unique appeal. Men supposedly think of women as virgins or whores; cheerleaders can – and almost have to — present as both simultaneously. Not every girl could do it, but Candi, the little minx, had it down.

But the athleticism, and particularly the flexibility, simply weren’t there. It was clear that she had worked at it – I would have been very disappointed if she hadn’t – but even Candi’s extraordinary diligence couldn’t create the flexibility cheerleaders require in a couple of weeks. Her jumps were not crisp, her leg kicks were nowhere near high enough, and she had not even attempted to do the splits.

She was sweet, she was hot as summer in Phoenix, but she would not have been on my cheer squad.

“Huh,” I grunted. “Seen prettier kicks from an arthritic mule,” I said sourly. “Stand up and give me a proper leg-kick.”

She complied.

“Again! Higher! Higher! Try the other leg. Again! Higher!” I continued harassing her.

She kept her presentation smile firmly in place, but she was starting to breathe hard and the effort to hold the smile was starting to show.

“Okay, stop,” I ordered. “Let’s see some stretches. Plant your butt and spread those pretty legs as far as you can, knees locked. Further! You can get them further apart! Now grab the bottom of your foot – The bottom, not your toes!!! Now bend down and touch your knee with your head. No! Don’t bend the knee!!!”

I put her through forty-five minutes of this kind of thing, pushing for more, more, more. By the end of it she was shaking with fatigue, drenched in sweat, and still trying gamely to hold on to her smile. Her will was strong, but it was clear that, for a cheerleader, she was short on stamina as well as flexibility. I blew twice on my whistle and called stop.

She stood quietly, lungs heaving, head down, legs slightly apart to keep her upright.

“Still think you have what it takes to be a cheerleader?” I asked, cattily.

“No, Ms. Talbott,” she said softly, head still bowed. “I don’t.” But then she looked up and, amazingly, hit me with a 200-watt, dazzling smile. “But I’m really glad I had the chance to try out. Thanks, Ms. T!”

I pointed upstairs and growled “shower!” and she managed to make her escape with the ghost of a perky spring still in her step. I watched her little butt bounce up the stairs, still putting on a show.

She got out of the shower a couple minutes later, having thoroughly scrubbed and washed her hair with some baby shampoo she brought with her. I had her set her hair with mousse and her rollers while I popped into the bedroom and laid out some towels on the bed.

When she came out, I had her lie down on her stomach, brought over some sweet-smelling therapeutic oil and began rubbing it vigorously into the muscles of her legs, starting low and working up. I worked on each arm next, starting at the top, working down, and spending time massaging each palm and pulling each finger. I moved to the sensitive spot where her skull met the top of her neck, then worked down her neck and on each shoulder. Mid-back, lower back, and then finally her ass.

She was breathing deeply and easily at this point.

A therapeutic massage hadn’t been part of my program for the day, but it’s something a trainer might do for an athlete after a tough workout, so it wasn’t entirely out of my dominant role. Given what Cam had looked like when he came in, I wanted to do something that might help ease the physical manifestations of tension that the body inevitably produces.

I put my hand gently on the back of Candi’s neck, ran it slowly down her spine, then lightly caressed her ass. I leaned over, planted a soft kiss where her neck met her shoulder, and quietly said, “Roll over, girl.” Obviously, sex is not part of an ethical trainer’s repertoire, but our relationship had a broader scope. Besides, her routine had fired me up and her subsequent docility was keeping me on a slow burn.

She rolled over and lay still as I massaged oil into the fronts of her legs. I then worked on her abs, then lightly massaged her temples and scalp. She lay there with her eyes closed, accepting every touch, resting completely in my care. Her male sex organ, exposed by her nakedness, was not hard at all; it barely detracted from the feminine vibe she was throwing off. This had clearly been pure therapy for Candi, and she needed it.

I looked her over critically as I finished my massage. Her prosthetics aside (they looked less real than usual, since the shower had affected the makeup covering the seams, and I naturally had not bothered to rub the oil that I had applied to her skin to the silicone), she looked . . . well, she actually looked good. For a girl.

The loss of weight had not looked good on Cam; it made him look fragile and too small for his frame. But while lots of girls and women had more muscle tone than Candi currently had – I did myself – most didn’t, so her body looked more feminine than it had at a higher weight. There were things I would need to discuss with Cam when we did our debrief on Monday morning.

But, I couldn’t just let her lie on a damp head of hair indefinitely. So I gave her a bit of a shake, patted her cheek twice, and said, “Break-time’s over, Kitten. Back on your feet.”

For once, her compliance wasn’t instant. But then she shook herself, popped open her eyes, said, “Yes, Ma’am” and practically jumped out of bed and onto her feet.

“Towel yourself off, find a robe, and join me in the kitchen in fifteen minutes. We’ll have a bite and discuss the next assignment.” I went into my own bedroom and changed out my gym shorts for a pair of loose gray pants. I added a collared dress shirt, unbuttoned and untucked, with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows, and switched to boat shoes.

I stood upright and gently removed Cam’s clothes, folding them neatly and putting them into a bureau drawer. Once everything of his was put away, I said, “It's okay, Cam. I’ve got this. I’ve got your back.”

I opened my suitcase, unzipped the interior divider, and pulled out my dressing gown, breast forms, toiletries, and cosmetics. I went into the guest bathroom and took a quick shower without washing my hair. The hot water sluicing off of my body seemed to take Cam’s worries down the drain with it. Cam desperately needed a vacation, and we would both be better for it. Though his problems, I well knew, would be waiting on the other side.

Out of the shower, I put on my breast forms, slipped into a panty gaff, and applied morning makeup as instructed. Slipping on my dressing gown, I returned to the bedroom to put on the cheerleading uniform, put my hair in order and do my nails.

While my nail polish was drying, I sat at the top of the bed against a pile of pillows, my eyes closed, my breathing even, preparing myself. I thought about the cheerleaders I had known in high school. Not well, of course. But known. I thought about how they presented themselves, how they held their heads. The personality they showed to the world.

“I want to be a cheerleader,” I told myself. “I want to be the best, the hardest working, the most cheerful cheerleader ever.” I went through a mental checklist. Power! Enthusiasm! Technique! School spirit! Confidence! Leadership! Flexibility! Sexiness!

When my nails were dry, I jumped up, purposefully leaving weariness and worry on the bed behind me. I bounded out of the room to meet the coach.

She took me downstairs and had me perform my routine. I gave it my very best, working hard to get all the elements right and the transitions between them smooth so that the expressive part of the routine would come through.

Watching all of the tryout videos from the other cheerleaders and from my own practice routines, I was surprised to see how different the same element can appear – say, a jump where the girl bends arms, legs, and body sideways into a C-shape – depending on the tilt of the head, the arc of the back, the angle of feet and hands. Above all, the facial expression. Since the goal of cheerleading is, after all, to generate enthusiasm, a cheerleader has to project enthusiasm. A bit ironic in my case, since lawyers often must work to suppress it!

Anyhow, I got through my short program, confident that I had done everything just as I had practiced it. I was, however, well aware of the fundamental shortcomings of my routine, and they would be glaringly apparent to a cheerleading veteran like Liz. My range of motion was significantly less than most girls, most athletes of any gender who engage in sports requiring flexibility, and every single cheerleader ever. My leg kicks were stylish but anemic, and forget about doing the splits – a basic element of any cheerleader’s repertoire.

But I did everything that I could do, just as well as I was able to do it, keeping a smile on my face that came from my heart. For all of my shortcomings, I had found this challenge to be fascinating and exciting. I had discovered a real appreciation for the athleticism and talent that cheerleaders exhibit, an appreciation Cam had lacked when he was compelled to attend pep rallies in high school. And, I could think of few things that made me feel more completely girly, for lack of a better word, than using my entire body to try to convey boundless, joyous, infectious enthusiasm.

I finished my routine on one knee, arms spread wide as if to embrace the whole world, and beamed.

I did not expect Liz to be impressed, and she wasn’t. I wasn’t sure where she would go with that, but I was determined to meet it with a joyful heart and my smile intact. She put that resolve to the test with a grueling workout that stretched every muscle to the breaking point and left me panting for breath.

She blew the whistle to call a halt and asked if I still thought I had what it takes to be a cheerleader, and I answered her truthfully. I didn’t, I knew I didn’t, and that was okay. I had been given an opportunity I had never dreamed of to try out for a cheer squad, about as high prestige as anything in high school. I had given it everything I had, without any illusion that it was enough. I didn’t have to be a star.

So I had fun with it and my failure did not depress me at all. I felt great. The hard workout had given me a surge of adrenaline and gotten me completely into a different headspace. I thanked Liz and kept the rubber in my legs from showing just long enough to bound upstairs and hit the shower.

Liz was waiting when I emerged naked from the shower. She had me prep my hair and then lie face down on towels she had put on the bed.

I didn’t know what was coming next, though I couldn’t imagine it was sex. Nothing could look less alluring than I did with no makeup and a head full of curlers! I was surprised when she started to rub oil into my aching calf muscles – not quite what I expected Liz to do in her power mode – but she was plainly well-practiced at it and it occurred to me that she must have had experience with certified trainers. I was, as always, in her care.

And content to be so.

The massage felt heavenly and I completely surrendered myself to it. Even though she was going deep on knotted, aching muscles, she skillfully started gently and increased the pressure very slowly, easing the knots apart without causing them to spasm into resistance. By the time she was finished with my back I was boneless, resting peacefully without sleeping.

She gave a long, sensual caress down my spine all the way to my ass and had me roll over.

As always, I complied and she started on the other side. Cam, I thought sleepily, you have no idea how good life can be.

I must have dozed off finally, because I was suddenly aware that Liz had patted me on the cheek and given me instructions. My eyes flew open and I jumped up to meet the next task.

– To be continued . . . .

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

~o~O~o~

The GoPro I had used to film Candi’s cheer routine was still downstairs, so I grabbed it, then went to the kitchen to pull together a couple plates of cold chicken, sliced tomatoes, olives, almonds, and cheese. I added a glass of water and put it all out on the table.

Candi joined me a couple minutes later wearing a striking full-length dressing gown in dark green and a pair of soft slippers.

“Have a seat, Candi. I’m Ms. Talbott, and I’ll be doing your photoshoot today. I’ll walk you through it while we have some lunch.” I was shifting roles, but remaining in a position of authority, always calling the shots.

Candi slid right into her new role. “I’m so glad to meet you, Ms. Talbott,” she said, coming over and extending a hand for me to shake. “Thank you for the lovely lunch.” She took the seat I had indicated, and waited until I sat down and took a bite before starting on her own meal.

“Here’s the plan,” I told her as she ate. “I want you to bring up the outfits you’ve brought, and hang them there.” I pointed to a wheeled rack that I used to store dresses in a long, narrow closet, which I had temporarily emptied for today. “You can lay out your underwear and accessories on the couch. We’ll have you put on different outfits and run you through the poses that I decide make sense for each outfit. Good so far?”

“Yes, Ms. Talbott.”

“I’m going to set up a green screen and I’ll probably add some light to some of the shots. Fortunately it’s pretty sunny today, so I shouldn’t need much.” The light was streaming in through the sliders that led to the back deck; I had translucent shades on all of my front-facing windows.

We were both eager to get started so we finished our lunch quickly.

Candi started hanging her dresses and organizing her sundries, while I pulled together my photography set-up. I had some pretty good gear that I had acquired over the years, though I hadn’t done as much with it more recently. When I was a bored housewife in Northern Virginia, I had poured a fair bit of energy into it. I had even served as the “official” photographer at the weddings of a couple of Jack’s friends who, as very junior Marines, could not afford a professional photographer. Their brides had really liked my work.

I set up the green screen, then added a sheet I had dyed the same color. My innovation, which I’d used for the pre-wedding bridal shot’s of one of my “clients,” was a metal tube, also painted green, that I could lock in place between floor and ceiling beam. When properly wedged, you could lean against it, which was useful for any number of shots.

I was going to use two cameras for the shoot, one mounted on a professional tripod and one hand-held. I put my older Nikon D3100, which I had gotten second hand back in 2012, on the tripod with a 70-210 f2.8 zoom lens. My handheld was a newer Nikon mirrorless camera with a 30-120 zoom attached. I set up my light stand and clipped my GoPro on that about three feet or so from the base, checking to make sure it captured all the action.

While I was curious what Candi might choose for her initial outfit, I wasn’t going to give her the initiative. The photographer is the maestro during a photoshoot; I wanted Candi in pure obedience mode. “Okay, Candi,” I said, “Put on some makeup appropriate for day wear. Then let’s start with the A-line dress with the floral print, the strappy sandals, your tear-drop earrings and those gold bracelets. Brush out your hair and go for the side-parted, over the shoulder look.”

“Yes, Ms. Talbott,” she responded, and went back into the guest bathroom to fix her face. She did another excellent job with her makeup, using light tones appropriate for the afternoon.

I decided I would have her keep this look for the first part of the shoot.

Showing no modesty – there was, after all, nothing I hadn’t seen, she opened her dressing gown and hung it on the end of the dress rack, then went to the couch to select her lingerie. She chose a white satin bra and panty set that I had not seen before, stepped into the panties and hooked on her bra with a degree of ease that demonstrated considerable practice. There was a fluidity to her movements and a certain poise that was subtly feminine as well.

Just watching her get dressed was sending me renewed shots of sexual excitement.

When she was ready, I had her check herself in the full-length mirror. I took some shots with my mobile camera while she checked her look, face-on, side-to-side, then looking backward over her bare shoulder. She really looked great, and neither of us found anything to correct.

Back out in my improvised “Green Room” I brought out a low platform with a single step attached that I had borrowed from the area leading up to the back deck. I put it on the green sheet and went back behind my camera. “Right. Pose one, Candi.”

Right on cue, she went to the platform and sat down on it from the side, taking care to bring her hand across her butt to keep her full skirt where it belonged. Then she pivoted to the front, put the heel of her right sandal on the step and her left foot to the floor, knee slightly bent. She put her left arm behind her and leaned on it lightly, bending the elbow slightly. Her right hand went to the back of her head, on the other side from the shoulder where her black hair was cascading down in curls. She looked away from the camera and assumed a somewhat dreamy expression.

“Hold there.” I began snapping pictures with the mounted camera, moving it up and down on the tripod to get slightly different angles. I made some adjustments to the depth of field and shot another series. Then I got my handheld and walked around her from three angles, snapping shots constantly. “Okay, up you come.”

I put the platform off to the side. “Pose four, Candi.”

She leaned against my green pillar, played with a few strands of hair, bent her head a quarter and gave me a look.

“I need a bit more of a sexual draw on this one,” I said. “Make me want to come scoop you up, without moving your body.”

The look on her face changed subtly; her lips parted ever so slightly and her eyes narrowed just a hair.

“That’s it,” I said. “Hold that thought.” I went back to my shots. “Great. Pose three.”

She stood upright, thrust her right hip out, put both hands on it, cocked her shoulders but turned her head to look straight at the camera, her expression shifting from the come-hither look required by Pose four.

“Good. Hold it there.”

She froze again as I did my thing.

“Pose two,” I said next.

She went to the rack, grabbed a white jacket, and then returned, posing to look like she was walking with her jacket held over her shoulder.

I snapped some shots with both cameras, then had her back up to the green screen and actually walk, slowly, as I shot some more. Clearly she had no trouble whatsoever in heels at this point.

I was into it; clearly Candi was too. We went through this same routine with several other outfits. We only used Pose one with her yoga pants/sports bra and racerback outfit, but used Poses two through four with her slinky red slip dress, her LBD and her full-length halter-top dress with the slit that went up to her thigh. She had to remove her bra for the halter-topped dress and made other accessory changes for each outfit, as well as making changes to her hair.

It was obvious to me that Candi had spent a lot of time getting the poses down. I had her do a couple other poses she had not rehearsed, and she handled those without issue, too.

We were operating like a good team, with me barking orders and her complying without question. She understood when I asked for subtle variations in the feel she was projecting, and was able to translate them into the look I wanted. “More girl-next-door,” I would say, or “I want ice queen here,” or “See if you can give me a look that says, ‘I know you are admiring me; everyone does.’” Or, “Let’s try a little bit of bitch.”

Mostly, she achieved the results with small changes in her posture and shifts in her expression and how she held her head. The mobility of her face was all the more remarkable because Cam had a reserved expression most of the time – a good face for playing poker, but not so good for conveying a wide range of emotions and moods.

I could honestly imagine someone wanting to use her to model clothing. While she wasn’t conventionally pretty, she had a certain exotic beauty that might appeal to some fashion designers. Equally important, her sharp eye for detail, talent for physical mimicry, and, shall we say, willingness to submit to the artist’s vision of the shot, would be a real asset.

The latter was also, for me, a serious turn on. If I asked for ice, I got instant aloof. If I wanted come hither, she got hungry-looking. The second series of shots would test this further, but I had no doubt she would pass that test with equally high marks.

It was almost time to find out. “Take ten, Candi. Use the ladies’ room, have some ice water, then switch to more of a dramatic, overtly sexy makeup, get your hair loose and mussed up, and get ready for the next series of shots.”

She nodded her head, changed back into her dressing gown, grabbed some water from the fridge and disappeared into the guest bathroom.

I went back to my bedroom and changed myself, putting on my Merry Widow, opaque black stockings and boots, with the underwear concealed under a severe black wool skirt that came to mid-calf and a tight olive green tank top. I pulled my hair back tightly into a bun at the back of my head, then added a plain black baseball cap. I put a bit of Goth into my look by adding some smokey eye and lipstick the shade of black cherries.

When I came out, Candi was sitting at the dining room table finishing her ice water. If she was surprised at my transformation, she didn’t show it, simply standing as I came into the room. “Ready when you are, Ms. Talbott.” As always, she seemed to be willing to passively accept my orchestration of events.

“Good. Put on your swimsuit and let’s see if we can get away with not adding anything else.”

She once again hung up her dressing gown; the only thing she was wearing were her prosthetics and her nude panty gaff. She stepped into her red one-piece suit, pulled it up, and then slipped her slender arms through the straps, pausing to adjust everything once it was in place. The swimsuit’s legs were higher cut than the legs of the panty gaff, which was not ideal. But, because the panties were nude and designed not to show any seams it wasn’t as noticeable as it might have been otherwise.

I decided I could clean up any issues with the Lightroom and Photoshop software, so I decided not to have her add shorts or a skirt.

“Pose five, Candi,” I said, and she assumed the beach pose made popular by Cheryl, Christie, Xyra and others in Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Editions – legs spread, knees on the ground, ass almost, but not quite, touching her heels, hair tousled, back arched, hands behind her head.

“Hmm.” I walked over to where she knelt. I bent down, caught the straps of her suit just over the shoulder blades and tugged them up a couple inches, then brought the slack over her shoulders and pulled the front of the suit a bit lower, showing more cleavage. My face was just over her head, giving her a close-up view down the front of my tank top.

Her breathing got deeper.

Good.

I backed up and looked at her critically again. “Better, but it needs something more. Rest for a second.”

She sank down fractionally and lowered her arms while I grabbed a box fan and a spray bottle. I set the fan on a chair to get it at the right height, then turned it on high. Candi’s hair looked suitably wind-blown.

“Back to pose five,” I ordered. I used the spray bottle to mist her arms, legs, torso, and throat, adding just a touch along her hairline. “MUCH better,” I said, then bent to the lens. I made the light brighter, mimicking a hot sun, and returned to the camera. “Hotter, Candi. Much hotter. You are smoking hot. Sizzling. Hungry. Feel it, girl. Show it to me!”

Her back arched even more, thrusting out her chest. Her head went further back, and her tongue snaked out to slowly add moisture to her lipstick. Her lips parted, looking dewy and desirable. She leaned back slightly more and pushed her pelvis into high relief.

“YES!!!” I said triumphantly, continuously snapping off shots. “That’s it, Candi. More!!” I grabbed my handheld and got up close, snapping shots from multiple angles, encouraging her constantly.

My verbal petting was having the desired effect; her unusually exposed chest was starting to heave and I could see her pulse jumping at the base of her damp throat.

I captured all of it. God, she was hot! I finally stopped shooting, squatted in front of her, put my hands over hers and gave her a fierce, full-on French kiss, burying my tongue in her mouth.

“Perfect,” I said with satisfaction after I broke the kiss.

She lowered her arms and modestly dropped her gaze while she got her breathing back under control.

“Take five. Dry off and fix your makeup, then we’ll do the last set.”

She got shakily to her feet, grabbed her dressing gown, and then headed back to the bathroom.

While she was gone I prepped for the final segment of the shoot. It was only 2:30, but this late in the season the ambient light was already noticeably weaker. I put the green screen behind the couch and moved my improvised “green carpet” to cover from the green screen to a couple feet in front of the couch (a set up which required me to lift up one end of the couch, but I was feeling pretty damn strong by that point). I shifted the light and the mounted camera and checked everything through the viewfinder. All good.

I popped into my room and got the gauzy pink peignoir I’d picked up for this part of the shoot. Just a little secret – Victoria’s Secret, specifically!

Candi came out of the bathroom, having managed to compose herself again. She was dry and her evening makeup was back in place. She took a deep breath and murmured, “Ready, Ms. Talbott.”

“Strip,” I said firmly.

“Yes, Ma,am,” she said, clearly recognizing that our roles were shifting again. She removed her dressing gown and stood once again in just her prosthetics and panty gaff.

I handed her a pair of wispy pink panties.

Without a word she put them on.

I gave her the peignoir and she slipped it on, tying it very loosely. She looked more exposed than she had when she was naked.

“Pose six,” I ordered.

She dipped her head and arranged herself on the couch. She brought her left hand to her left breast and cupped it gently through the gauzy fabric of the lingerie, then brought the fingers of her right hand inside her pink panties (but above her nude panty gaff). She looked at me appraisingly.

“Let me arrange your head and your hair a bit,” I said.

Perching on the arm of the couch, I put a hand on each side of her head, and moved it both left and back. I tumbled some of her hair on the left side to spread over the pillow her head was resting on, then brought the hair on the right hand side down to frame the right side of her face and fall towards her breast. Reached down, I opened her peignoir so that her hand was now caressing her uncovered breast. Then I flipped back the bottom of the garment to expose what her right hand was doing.

I stroked her cheek with one finger and said softly, “Look at me Candi.”

Her eyes made contact.

“I want you to think about sex, Candi. I want you to remember the first time you ate my pussy. How you felt, kneeling in front of me, burying your head between my legs, kissing, licking, sucking at my lower lips. Do you remember?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” she whispered.

“Remember how you felt?”

Her breathing was starting to get ragged again. “I remember”.

“Remember orgasming while you worshiped my pussy?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” she said in a low, throaty voice.

“I want you to imagine that your head is back between my legs right now, Candi. I want you to imagine you are kissing and licking me again, tasting my juices, overwhelmed by my scent. Think about that while you writhe on the couch, fondling and fingering yourself.”

She groaned, twisted and started to pant. I sauntered back to the mounted camera and started snapping photos. Then I started with the handheld, getting close, finding angles.

She was whimpering rhythmically, wiggling on the couch, her eyes almost closed, her lips sometimes formed in a kiss, sometimes opened for her tongue. My juices were flowing, I was flushed and my nipples were hard as pennies.

I was almost breathing as hard as Candi. I couldn’t take any more. I set my camera down, unzipped and dropped my skirt, and ripped off both my tank top and my cap.

Candi was too far gone to even notice that I was no longer taking photos.

I straddled her head between my knees and dropped my pussy onto her hungry, questing mouth. My orgasm was almost instantaneous, overwhelming, and just kept rolling. I screamed in triumph and Candi’s high-pitched squeal came just a moment later.

We stayed there for a few sweet moments as our hearts and breathing began to slow. Candi’s eyes were still closed, and every few seconds she licked my labia again as my juices continued to drip out.

Wow, that was intense! Finally, I raised myself up and got off of her. I bent down and planted the softest of kisses on her parted lips.

She responded with a sweet smile, then slowly opened her eyes, which were filled with incredible tenderness.

I cupped her cheek with my right hand and whispered, “Hey, princess.”

“Hey,” she responded.

“You done good, girl. Real good.”

“Had the best coach.”

“I think you need some beauty rest now. I want you to clean up, put on a pretty nightie, and get some sleep. I’ll wake you up in a couple hours. Let me help you up.”

She held her arms out to me with a smile.

I pulled her upright then pulled her in for a long, lingering kiss as I wrapped my arms around her. She melted into my embrace, accepting my kiss and returning it. Then I broke the kiss and released her. “To bed with you. Sweet dreams.”

She gave me a dreamy smile over her left shoulder as she went back to her bedroom, pausing to snag her dressing gown from the rack.

I watched her until she closed the door, then gave myself a shake. That had been hot, sweet, and powerful. I needed to take a few minutes myself before I started to prepare for the evening’s finale.

~o~O~o~

We discussed how the photoshoot would go while having some lunch. I had known that Liz was an amateur photographer and, as Cam, had seen some of her gear. She had more than I expected, and it all appeared to be high-quality equipment. Liz is a perfectionist; when she decides to do something, she makes sure it’s done right.

We spent the initial part of the session on the first four poses Liz had me practice, with a couple of other poses thrown in. It was fast-paced and intense, working to keep up with Liz’s stream of instructions. As we progressed, I got better and better at interpreting her directions and making instant small adjustments to my posture, position, and facial expressions. Her instructions grew even more terse and fast-paced.

My prep work back in my apartment paid off, since I didn’t even need to think about the poses themselves or the basic emotional content of the original shot. By the end, I was reacting to her voice almost without any thought. She was a concert pianist, and I was her Steinway. It was exhilarating, and I was almost disappointed when she called a halt and had me take a break.

The next set challenged me in a different way. When I came back from my break, Liz had switched into a different outfit and changed her makeup. The look was severe, almost butch. She had me put on my one-piece bathing suit and kneel, almost squatting, with my legs spread, my back arched, my hands behind my head and my bust thrust forward.

I was momentarily carried back to my adolescence, to the darkened room where I surreptitiously wore my sister’s outgrown, lime-green swimsuit, stroking myself to explosion while fantasizing about being a beach beauty. I was getting hot and bothered even before Liz sauntered over and adjusted my suit to show more cleavage, in the process giving me a mosquito's eye view down the front of her tank top, exposing her own breasts as well as the black lace of her Merry Widow.

Liz set up a fan to give my hair a wind-blown look and used a spray bottle to give the appearance that I had either come out of the ocean, or was bathed in sweat.

I was trying to control my excitement.

Liz had other ideas. She got behind the camera and pushed me to be sexier, hotter. She kept up a stream of words, images.

My breathing was labored and my heart pounded in my chest. I felt myself leaning back further, thrusting out my breasts, my pelvis, as if offering them up. Completely overwhelmed by lust, almost whimpering with desire, I was becoming increasingly oblivious to everything around me.

Suddenly Liz was squatting in front of me, covering my hands with hers and pulling my head forward into a hard, hot kiss. Her tongue forced itself past my lips and fenced with mine, a saber to my foil.

I opened my lips and surrendered to her completely, passionately.

Eventually she broke off the kiss and sent me off, dazed, to fix my makeup.

When I was able to focus again, I saw that I needed to remove what I had put on just a few minutes before and start over. Fortunately, I was getting very quick with my makeup.

I knew that the last session would be even more intense, based on the image presented in pose six. Pose five had been soft porn – the stuff that gets in mainstream magazines. Pose six was rated XXX, not R, and would never be seen on the pages of Sports Illustrated or Vogue.

I had a sense that the chemistry between Liz and I would change as well, even more than it had for the last session. I instinctively shifted to “Yes, Ma’am,” when she gave me my last set of garments to model – lacey pink panties and a diaphanous peignoir.

She had me recline on her couch and spent time adjusting my head, my hair, and the drape of my peignoir. Then she sat on the arm of the couch, had me look into her eyes, and began to use her voice, low and sexy, to caress, to fondle, to pet, to stroke, every pleasure center in my brain.

She painted an image of me, just months before, on my knees before her, eating her. I was reminded of how I had felt, of how excited I had become, of how I had been driven to orgasm into the panties she had loaned me without so much as touching myself. She fed me the image, reminded me of the sounds, the sensations, the smell, the taste, as she walked back and started shooting photos.

I was completely gone at this point – no longer even able to hear her voice or see what she was doing. My vision darkened and I could only see the picture in my mind’s eye as I squirmed in sexual overdrive.

I was already lost in waves of pleasure when the vision became reality once more. Her hot, steaming vulva was poised inches from my face, and then I was buried in it, worshiping her labia with my lips, teasing her clit with my tongue, drinking in her scent, her juices . . . I felt her shuddering orgasms, heard her scream of triumph, and joined my voice to hers as I felt my body explode in pleasure.

We stayed in that position for a few minutes. I used my tongue to get the last of her seeping juices, at that point more an act of sweetness than of lust.

Finally she got off of me and spoke, in that postcoital moment, like a lover.

I responded with deep love and affection; I could not imagine anyone else bringing me so far into such uncharted territory.

She sent me off to get some sleep, seeming to know what my body needed in that moment more than anything else.

In the bathroom, I removed my panty gaff, washed it out and hung it on a towel rack to dry, an echo of my first escapade wearing panties in this house. I sponged myself, dried off, and then returned to the guest bedroom, gratefully donning my sheer, soft green full-length nightgown. Sleep was irresistible.

~o~O~o~

Some hours hours later, Liz woke me with a gentle, lingering kiss, caressing my arm and returning my errant lingerie strap to my shoulder. She smiled down at me. “Feeling better, Kitten?”

“Much,” I smiled back. And it was true. A couple of hours was not nearly enough to redress the negative balance in my sleep account, but it had been deep, dreamless, and amazingly restorative, nonetheless.

“Good,” she said. “Because this evening, you are going to be a prom princess!”

I giggled at her possessive expression. “Yes, Ma’am!” I said.

She had me follow her into the master bathroom, where she had drawn a full, deep, perfumed, bubble bath. “First things first, pet. We need to get you all relaxed and beautiful. Into the tub now.”

I lowered the straps of my nightgown, allowed it to slide down my rapidly awakening body, stepped out of it, and then hung it by its straps on a wall peg. Removing my panty gaff, I stepped into the tub, which was warm enough to be relaxing without being too hot for comfort. I sank down into it gratefully, feeling the bubbles tickle my chin.

Liz lit a couple of candles and set a lady’s razor on the shelf. “When you feel ready, do a touch up with the razor and get yourself completely smooth. I’ll be back in a bit to do your hair.”

I was trying to place her dominant role here, which was very different from any she had shown me before. I decided she was acting as a mom, helping her sixteen-year-old girl prepare for her first prom. She was sweet, gentle, but every bit as much in control as ever.

It came to me that Fi had almost certainly never had this experience, and I was pierced by a moment of deep sadness. Poor Fi. I sighed and sank deeper into the tub.

After a bit I stirred myself and got to work with the razor. There is something about shaving your legs in a tub that is just plain sexy, in a way that shaving in a shower isn’t. I don’t know why. The image of the razor drawing sharp-edged rows across the soapy calf and thigh I was holding out of the water was extremely erotic. There is, unfortunately, nothing erotic about shaving your pits!

I was just finishing when Liz came back, wearing a plain cotton shirtdress in a pale yellow. Very mom-like. She gave me another sweet smile. “Ready for me to wash your hair, princess?”

I nodded happily.

She had me slip my head into the water up to my scalp, leaving only my face about water. Her fingers worked my hair for a few minutes, then she had me sit up and bend forward, my sopping wet hair straight and flat against my back. Using a sweet-smelling shampoo, she lathered the crown of my head and worked down slowly.

I dunked again to rinse off.

She started working in some conditioner, taking her time and in the process giving me an amazingly relaxing scalp massage.

I thought, I would have loved being a daughter, if this is any part of it!

Eventually she had me rinse off and get out of the tub, pulling the plug to let it drain. She wrapped my head in one towel and patted me dry with another while I stood there, passively enjoying the experience. It was not remotely sexual, but it was extremely sensual. Every nerve of my skin felt alive.

When I was completely dry, she had me put my panty gaff back on, then handed me a fresh pair of white lace panties and a pretty matching bra, which she hooked up before adjusting the shoulder straps. Then she gave me a garment I hadn’t worn before: a full slip – crisp, white nylon with lace trim that matched the bra and panty set, with delicate straps.

It felt amazing. Stepping into it, I felt feminine, sexy, alluring – like a glamorous actress in a movie during the Golden Age of the Silver Screen. My intense pleasure must have showed.

“I’m glad you like it,” Liz chuckled.

I couldn’t help myself – I turned and gave her a quick, fierce, very girly hug. “Thank you!” I whispered.

She let me go and said, “I’m going to do your hair tonight, Sweetie. No need for curlers, though I want you to work in some mousse while it is still damp. Go back to your room and do your makeup while your hair dries a bit more. I want your prom dress to be a surprise, so I won’t show it to you just yet. But for purposes of your makeup, you need to know that it is royal blue.”

I followed her instructions, and discovered that a slip was the perfect garment to wear while doing your makeup. Who knew? I wondered why they had gone so completely out of fashion.

I knew this would be a special night – my prom, after all! Cam, of course, had never gone, but I was going to “make up” for that. I spent more time than usual on my makeup, going for a more dramatic look. Between my makeup and the promised dress, my eyes were going to dazzle!

Liz came in while I was finishing, and waited until I was satisfied with my look. Then she brought me back into her bathroom, toweled a bit more moisture from my hair, then went to work with her hairdryer. She paused to take a curling iron to a few strands on either side of my face.

When my hair was dry it looked full and glossy – a river of dark chocolate untouched by any milk. She went to work creating several thick braids, which she then pulled up and wove into an elaborate up-do, with wispy curled strands of hair dangling past each ear. The end result was unlike anything I had tried before.

I felt incredibly sophisticated!

She wrapped me in my dressing gown, sat me down at the dining room table, and gave me some chicken, broccoli, and couscous that had been cooking while I was getting ready.

I suddenly realized that I was very hungry, and I ate everything with relish. I washed it down with some cold water. Liz had gone back into her bedroom, so I got up, bussed and cleaned my dishes and tidied up the kitchen. Liz isn’t keen on cooking or cleaning, so I thought she would appreciate the help.

She gave me a quick smile when she came back into the room. “Thanks, Sweetie,” she said, before helping me finish drying what I had cleaned.

Then she took me back into her room, where the dress was hanging on the back of her closet door. I loved the color and the style was again unlike anything I had worn before. Liz first had me put on a pair of garters, followed by sheer black silk stockings with a seam at the back. Then she unzipped the dress and lowered it gently over my head. I shivered with anticipation as it settled around me.

It had wide straps that merged into capped sleeves, a squared off neck that exposed LOTS of skin, a tight, ruched bust. From there it fell straight into an A-line, the hemline coming a couple of inches above the knee. “Empire style?” I asked.

“A variation,” she said. She looked at her handiwork with pleasure. “Needs one more thing.” She brought out a fine gold chain with a clear crystal pendant in the shape of a tear-drop. She gently did the clasp behind my neck, then handed me two matching earrings and five thin gold circuits for around my wrist.

I had to hold back tears.

“Here are your shoes, dear,” she said. “You may want to practice with them a bit, until your date arrives.” She kissed me gently on the forehead and then left, closing the door softly behind her.

I looked at the shoes and agreed with her assessment. I was used to high heels, and I had worn three-inch heels before. But these were almost nothing more than silken straps for attaching a sole and heel to your feet. I did them up and started practicing.

There was a knock on the door, and I walked over to answer it, considerably more confident in my – tiny – stride than I had been at the outset.

~o~O~o~

My date was outside, holding a corsage which she pinned above my left breast.

Liz was wearing a short, black, formal jacket over a form-fitting black top in a thin knit material with a deeply scooped neck. Pleated black pants and stylish boots with a high, but mercifully wide, heel completed her prom outfit. She was taller than me with our two sets of heels added into the equation, but hers provided a much more stable platform!

Her hair was slicked back in a tight, low ponytail with a clubbed end, worn just like Cam was wearing his hair these days. In a further tribute to my alter ego, she was wearing only a single earring, although she had selected a gold pendant with a single red stone set at the bottom. Her makeup was so subtle as to be unnoticeable.

“You look beautiful, Babe,” she appraised in a husky voice.

I blushed, right on cue and lowered my eyes. “Why thank you, kind sir!”

She held out her right hand, fingers curled in, knuckles on top.

I placed my left hand lightly over it.

“Shall we go,” asked my date.

“Yes!”

She handed me down the stairs to the same space where I had done my cheerleader routine that morning. The carpet had been rolled up, exposing the faux wood floor. Liz had dimmed the lights, added some candles in sconces on the walls, and found, somewhere, a disco ball that rotated slowly in the center of the ceiling, spilling moving light all around the room. Music was playing from the speakers.

I let out a peel of delighted laughter.

My date laughed, then motioned to the dance floor.

I don’t know how long we danced, the two of us. Liz, unsurprisingly, is a good dancer. The head cheerleader is by god going to know how to look good on a dance floor. I, on the other hand, had no practice whatsoever and was hampered by my incredibly delicate footwear. I didn’t care, and my date didn’t seem to care either.

We danced.

I got better.

We took a couple of breaks, and each time my date brought me to a table where we stood and had a couple nibbles and a glass of champagne. Then we were back on the dance floor. The playlist was starting to favor selections that were progressively sweeter and slower. We took a short bathroom break and returned for the last song.

At that point, I was just swaying back and forth on the dance floor, my head on my partner’s shoulder, my arms around my partner’s neck, secure in my partner’s arms. I became aware that I was not the only one in the room who was wearing padding, and as the last dance played on it and my partner brought me into an ever-tighter embrace, it was all the more evident.

It didn’t worry me. Nothing could worry me right then.

The music stopped and a recorded voice said, “That’s all folks. Thanks for listening. I hope you keep the memories with you forever.” I got a long, slow kiss, then we broke apart and my date brought me upstairs.

It was dark and no lights were on. Liz brought me over to the couch and sat me down. Soon we were kissing, then we were giving each other caresses, and it rapidly progressed to very heavy petting.

I was overwhelmed with the entire experience, consumed with a vision of my own femininity, desirability, sexual attractiveness. It was intoxicating. Before long I was once again writhing in a passionate embrace, my heart pounding, my breathing ragged. “Please,” I begged. I didn’t even know what I was asking for.

Liz continued to fondle, to plant kisses in the inside of my elbows, the hollow of my throat, behind my ear.

I was aching.

Liz disengaged and stood, her breathing as hard as mine. “Unzip me,” she commanded.

I sat up slowly, undid her belt, and pulled down her zipper. She wasn’t wearing any underwear, male or female. What I had taken for padding was a large, realistic-looking dildo, which was held in place both by straps and by the fact, apparent at a glance, that the other end was buried in Liz’s vagina. I let go of her pants and they fell to the floor.

She echoed my own plea. “Please, Babe. I need you. Please!”

I knew I could say “No” and call a red light. But I also knew – Liz also knew – that I wouldn’t. It was another step, but it wasn’t really so different from what had happened back in Philadelphia. The visual image was stronger, but the act was the same.

And besides, I didn’t want to say “No.” Not at all.

I got down on my knees, raising my eyes to meet Liz’s. I could see she was almost overcome with her own excitement. The sight of me on my knees just inflamed her further.

She was panting.

I felt a surge of pleasure, a feeling of an intense and new sort of power. Oh, yes, I was the one who was down on my knees. But I held this person in the palm of my hand, too. I could send her to new heights. I knew it.

She knew it. She knew I knew it, and could do nothing about it.

I gave a slight, eldritch smile, then stroked her shaft with one long, painted finger, pausing at the bottom to make sure I was causing the planted end of the shaft to move inside her. My eyes never left hers.

She groaned.

I smiled.

I kissed the open end of the shaft, licked it, treated it like an object of wonder, all the while ensuring that Liz was properly stimulated. I loved the fact that I was causing her to spasm. Becoming as excited as she was, powerfully moved by my own feminine power, I engulfed her shaft with my mouth and began sucking it powerfully.

She was making noises like she was being torn apart. Her hips were bucking and I was moving in rhythm with them. For the second time that day, we both reached ultimate climax together, our twin shouts mixing triumph and sexual pleasure.

Liz dropped down on the couch like someone had cut her strings.

I slumped onto the ground at her feet, blacking out briefly. When I recovered, she was still leaning back on the couch, completely spent, her pants somewhat ridiculously bunched at the top of her stylish boots. I gently pulled off each boot, then removed her socks and the pants.

She still hadn’t moved.

I watched her from the floor for a long time. Watched as her breathing slowed, then slowed further, becoming deep and regular. The lines of her face eased, and I realized that her normal expression was far more severe than her face appeared at rest. I had never seen her look so peaceful.

And I had done it. Me. Candi. I had conquered her, not with strength, but by willingly and lovingly placing myself in her power.

I did not fool myself. Liz wanted a man, and I could never be that. Even Cam had fallen short. What we had today, had been for today. It was still precious.

I thought about the gift that Liz had given me today — how much planning and preparation she had put into each of our three fantasies. She had been in charge the entire time, orchestrating everything, right up to the explosive conclusion which she had planned just as meticulously as she had planned everything else. I hoped that she had enjoyed it all as much as I had, and thought that the effort had been worth her while.

After removing my pretty but incredibly impractical shoes, I stood up quietly and got a spare blanket from Liz’s bedroom. I spread it over her completely, making sure her bare legs and feet were covered, then tucked it over her shoulders and under her chin.

She smiled in her sleep, a sweet smile of such innocence Liz would never have employed it while awake. But she slept on, exhausted.

I tiptoed downstairs, blew out all the candles, shut off the lights and brought the glasses and small plates up to the kitchen. We could deal with them tomorrow. I blew my sleeping mistress a kiss, went into my room and got myself ready for sleep, changing out my beautiful prom dress (which I carefully hung), and my assorted dainty underthings, for my green nightie. In bed once more, I threw the covers over me, and dropped swiftly into a deep and untroubled sleep.

My last thought was, What on earth does Liz have planned for tomorrow? What can possibly top today?

I woke up with a start, feeling disoriented. I hadn’t remembered falling asleep, wasn’t in my bed, and briefly didn’t know where I was. For a panicked moment I thought I was back in Springfield, in the house where Jack and I had lived.

That thought was enough to wake me fully and fast. At which point I remembered yesterday, knew where I was and what I had been doing just before I collapsed. My panic disappeared and I relaxed back into the couch, savoring the memories. I smiled as I realized that Candi must have tucked a blanket around me – sometime after she finished pole-axing me and leaving me catatonic. How could anyone that sweet be so damned hot?

Collapsing and needing pampering probably weren’t going to do wonders for my fearsome reputation, I thought with rueful humor. But I can brazen it out, I’m sure. With a sigh, I slipped out of the blanket and got to my feet, in the process discovering that Candi had removed both my boots and my socks. Even that hadn’t disturbed my sleep. I found the boots by the chair with the pants – neatly folded, naturally – on the seat.

I would probably still be sleeping but for the fact that I had a dildo stuck inside me, which was growing increasingly uncomfortable. Note to self: Don’t try sleeping that way again! I also badly needed to pee. I hobbled to the master bathroom, removed the foreign object, and gratefully sat down to do my business.

My bedside clock said 12:30, so I had probably been asleep for two hours, or so. It was a good start. I went back into the main living area to pick up my discarded clothes and the extra blanket and saw that Candi had also brought up the dishes from downstairs and put them by the sink. I put my jacket and pants onto the drycleaning shelf in my closet, dropped the rest of the clothes into a hamper, and changed into a flannel nightgown.

There was one more thing I needed to do before going to bed. I had intended to tell Candi that I would need to speak with Cam in the morning before we started our next little adventure, but my postcoital collapse had prevented me. So I wrote a note and slipped into the guest bedroom to tape it to the inside of her door.

My sleeping beauty was curled on her side, back to the door, her hair loose and spilling down her back, jet black in the darkness of the room. A single pale shoulder, traversed by the thin strand of a lingerie strap, rose above the covers; her arm curled delicately, her long fingers almost touching her chin. It seemed criminal to ask this elfin creature to transform back into Cameron Savin, even briefly. But the discussion was a must. Tomorrow would push boundaries even further, and I wanted to make sure Cam was okay with it.

I felt a powerful urge to reach out, to rest my fingers lightly on her shoulder, to send her the sweetest of dreams. I touched her pillow instead, afraid I might wake her, then slipped from the room and took myself off to bed. I set my alarm so that I would be up before Cam, then fell into a deep sleep.

~o~O~o~

I woke to some of the sweetest smells in the world – coffee, bacon, and an undercurrent of fried egg – which were normally made sweeter when someone else did the cooking. But I meant to be up first, so I swore. Did my alarm not go off? I looked, and that wasn’t it. The problem was that I had set it for 8:00, and it was only 7:45. I had expected Cam/Candi to sleep much later, given how exhausted he had been when he showed up yesterday morning.

Judging by the smells from the kitchen, breakfast was already ready. I might as well make the best of it and get some while it’s hot. I threw on a dressing gown, put on some slippers, then stopped just in time before I opened the door. I had caught a glimpse in the mirror, and I was not going to be seen looking like that!

I went into the bathroom, quickly took a brush to my hair, did my business, washed my face and hands, and put on a little lipstick. Okay. Better. Cam had always thought of me as being “completely put together,” as he put it. Some mornings, putting myself together took some doing.

I went into the main living area. Cam was in the kitchen, pouring a couple of glasses of orange juice. He looked up, gave me a smile, and said “Good morning, Liz.”

“Not until I’ve had some coffee, it isn’t,” I growled, but I returned his smile.

“Already on the table.” He went into the dining room area, taking the juice glasses with him.

Cam still looked strained, though not as bad as he had yesterday. Even his blue eyes looked dark, like they were looking inward instead of out. His smile didn’t reach them.

We sat down and ate in silence for a bit. Everything was done just the way I liked it – coffee strong and black, eggs over easy, yolks runny, whites firm, bacon crisp but not burnt, toast dry and golden. He had added some olives and tomatoes, sliced thick and seasoned with olive oil and sea salt. Cam was always observant and never forgot anything useful. I admired that, especially since I tended to be oblivious.

After we were done with the food Cam got up, cleared the table, and brought out the pot to refresh our coffee. Then he sat across from me. “Too bad we can’t have our chat on the deck again, but it’s literally freezing out there – thirty-two degrees – and this kid from St. Louis ain’t made for that. So this will have to do.” He stopped, and just looked at me expectantly.

I was feeling a bit sluggish, finding it hard to get back into my normal “take charge” mode. So I stalled. “Before we get to that, Cam, I want to ask how you're doing. I don’t want to sound critical, but you really looked awful when you showed up yesterday. And you look like you’ve lost a bunch of weight.”

He had initially looked guarded – not unusual for Cam – but my comment about his weight clearly surprised him.

I asked again, “Are you okay?”

“I don’t track my weight, so I don’t really know whether I’ve lost any. Near as I can tell, since I left high school it just fluctuates randomly. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

I wasn’t so sure he was right to dismiss the weight loss, which didn’t look at all trivial to me.

He continued. “As for the rest, I’ve had a hectic few weeks. Work’s been crazy, so I’ve been short on sleep. Probably missed some meals, now that I think about it.” He gave me a small salute with his coffee mug in acknowledgement of my point about his weight. “And Thanksgiving was . . . not good.” He closed his mouth sharply and stopped talking. He was looking out the window, seeing something else, his jaw clenched.

I realized, in that moment, that I had never seen Cam angry.

And he clearly was. Deeply, profoundly, unquestionably furious. I gave him a minute (during which I thought guiltily about how many extra hours of work I had given him over the past two weeks, or so), then I reached out and touched his wrist, bringing his attention back to me and the present moment. “I won’t pry if you still don’t want to talk about it, but understand that I am here for you if you do. Sometimes it helps to vent?”

The raw anger in his eyes faded, then disappeared. “I really do appreciate your willingness to listen. But I need some time to wrestle with these demons alone. What I said yesterday still stands – what would help the most right now is losing myself in whatever you have planned for the day. Yesterday . . . .” he said the word with the first real smile I had seen all morning . . . “yesterday did wonders for me. I want you to know that I have a very clear idea of how much thought, and how much effort, you put into setting up all of that. It was fantastic, and I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate it.”

I had mixed feelings. I was delighted that he had appreciated my efforts and had unequivocally enjoyed yesterday’s fantasia. Yet, I was worried that he was unwilling to open up about whatever was eating him, and honestly a bit sad that he would not talk to me about it. I might not score high on the empathy scale, but I like to think that I know how to be a good friend.

Still and all, though, if what I was doing was helping, then as a good friend I should keep doing it rather than getting bent out of shape about his unwillingness to open up to me. I told myself firmly that this was not about me. “Okay, Cam. I’m glad you enjoyed yesterday. Any issues? Anything we need to address?”

He just shook his head.

“I’ve got some things set up for today," I said. "I think you will really enjoy them. Obviously, I hope you will. But they will push you in new ways. Part of me wants to surprise you, to surprise Candi, like I did with the prom yesterday.”

Did his eyes flicker when I mentioned Candi? Did I imagine it? Hmmmm.

I went on. “But I decided that wouldn’t be fair. I wanted to have a discussion first, with you, with Cam. Candi might get caught up in the moment.” Definitely a flicker this time, but I decided not to pursue it. “Does that make sense to you?”

He just nodded.

“I’ve got three things today. Let me lay them all out, we can talk about any concerns you have, then decide what to do.”

He nodded again.

“First, I want to leave the house with you as Candi, and take you to a beauty salon for a mani/pedi, a facial, and to have your hair and makeup professionally done. I’ll bring you back here afterwards for a special photoshoot, similar to the first photoshoot session yesterday. The difference is that you will be modeling a wedding dress.”

Cam looked up sharply, his breath catching.

“It’s just modeling, Cam,” I said softly. “There’s no wedding. But every girl should get a chance to look beautiful in a wedding dress. I want Candi to have that.”

He nodded.

I took a deep breath. “Then, I want to throw Candi on my bed and have my way with her. You aren’t a virgin, Cam, but in one important way, she still is. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He looked at me steadily, then quietly said, “Yes, I understand.”

“So let’s talk about the plan,” I said. “It’s obvious that you’ve already been to a beauty salon, but I don’t know how comfortable you would be going out as Candi and going someplace you’ve never been.”

He smiled. “Not a problem.”

I gaped. “You’ve done that, too?”

He just grinned at me. “It’s a hell of a lot less embarrassing to shop for women’s clothes when people think you are a woman,” he said. “I – well, Candi – has been shopping almost every week since I bought the padded panties.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. Somehow, I would have thought this would have been a much higher hurdle for him. Cam had taken to my feminization strategy like a duck to water. Like he was . . . born to it? I put that thought in a box for now as well. “Any issue with the bridal photoshoot?”

He paused, then shook his head.

“Alright then: the big enchilada. Are you willing to let me pop Candi’s cherry?”

It sounded funny, like that, and even Cam smiled a bit. “I guess it’s the next logical point, isn’t it? As Cam, I’ve never had any desire to have anal sex – never even thought about it. I’m not gay, I’ve always been attracted to women, and my . . . desires . . . Cam’s desires – have always been very conventional.”

He paused, searching for the right words. “But, . . . Candi just has different sexual responses to things. I can’t explain it. That day at the hotel in Phili, when you stimulated her hole – even a little – she went wild. It felt . . . well, good obviously. But that’s not what I’m getting at. It felt feminine. And, as Candi, that felt right. . . . I guess that’s a roundabout way of saying I think it will be alright, even though I’ll tell you truthfully that I’m kinda scared, too.”

I held his eyes for a few moments, making sure, before saying, “Okay then. But remember, if at any point something feels wrong, even a little wrong, you give me a yellow light and we’ll talk about it. Or a red light and we’ll stop. Okay? Promise me that you won’t hesitate to use your safe words – I’m counting on you.”

“I promise.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “Now can I please, pretty please, get out of these damned, scratchy, badly cut Cam clothes and do something with my hair and my face?”

I laughed and shooed him off.

Candi emerged maybe twenty minutes later, hair brushed out, parted in the middle, with the sides only pulled back from her temples and clipped at the back of her head and the rest flowing freely down her back. Her makeup was light but appropriate. She was wearing tight-fitting stretchy jeans and flats with a loose knit sweater with full sleeves that was a bit large on her. The effect was kind of cute.

We got our purses and went down to the garage. Candi hopped in the passenger’s seat, exhibiting no anxiety at all, and none of the lingering grimness that Cam had shown.

Amazing.

So off we went. It was about a twenty minute drive, during which I filled her in a bit on the details of what the salon ladies would be doing for her today. As before, it was my show.

She looked pleased.

When we got to the shop, I explained to Marci that I was thinking about moonlighting as a photographer and Candi was going to help me create some wedding shots for my portfolio. This wasn’t even much of a stretch – I had really enjoyed getting back into “mad photographer” mode yesterday, and photography was a great creative outlet. It would be fun to do some portrait and wedding work again, from time to time, so long as my day job permitted.

I gave Marci some magazine photos showing the look that I wanted, going over the details and suggesting a few changes here and there. Candi was, meantime, chatting away with one of the girls who did nails.

I got her attention. “Candi, I think we’re all on the same page. I’ve got to run a few errands. Call or text, if you need anything.”

I watched carefully for any sign of panic, but she was completely unfazed, giving me a cheery wave that said, clear as a bell, “Yup, got this. No sweat.” Either she was supremely confident that no-one would guess her gender, or she wasn’t worried about it if they did. Either way, having given her the challenge, I had to follow through when she accepted it. I left.

I did have a few errands to run, as it happened. I used the time to stop at Lowes to pick up a faux wood trellis and at Michaels to pick up some artificial flowers. I went back home and arranged my impromptu studio, again using the living room since it had the best natural light. I set up the trellis and attached most of the greens and flowers to it, saving enough to make a hand-held bouquet.

I checked the time and decided I should head back to the salon. I arrived around 12:30 and popped inside. They were just finishing with Candi’s hair, which they had arranged into an elaborate concoction of swirls and curls and braids, mostly leaving her neck exposed. Because her hair was so thick and so dark, her neck looked surprisingly slender.

Her nails and makeup were exactly to my specifications and looked positively exquisite. I had avoided a dramatic evening look, opting instead to go for something that would photograph well in the daylight. She looked fresh, rosy, and innocent. Perfect. Any groom would drool.

She was still chatting merrily away, this time with Daphne, the Goddess of Complicated Hair. I settled up with Marci while Daphne finished, then took Candi home.

~o~O~o~

We sat down and had some lunch – some leftover chicken, fresh rice, and raw vegetables, then I had her freshen her lipstick and get her dressing gown on. I instructed her to leave her panty gaff off. “You won’t need it with this dress,” I told her. While she was doing that, I brought all of the accouterments into the main room.

When she returned, I removed her dressing gown and had her step into a sleek, virginal white boned corset. I carefully settled each of her prosthetics into the corset’s cups, checking to make sure that the seams were still well hidden by her makeup. I had her stand in a doorway while I tightened the laces. “Breathe in,” I said, then tightened them some more and tied them loosely. “How you doing there, Princess?”

“Still okay. How do you do this to yourself when you wear your Merry Widow?”

I chuckled. “Oh, I just tie that off. But I’m not trying to fit into a wedding dress. Give yourself a minute to get used to it, then I’ll see if we can’t get just a little bit more.”

Her eyes bugged. “More?”

I just chuckled again. “Beauty has a price, Sweetheart! I promise you will like the result.”

She muttered something about how she hoped to live long enough to see it, but acquiesced.

I managed to squeeze out another inch or so, leaving her short of breath. But I knew she would adapt quickly enough. Then I had her put on a pair of backless white silk panties, gently tucking her member between her legs and holding it in place with the crotch of the panties themselves.

I had her sit on a delicate white wrought iron garden chair in front of the green screen and gave her a pair of feather-light white stockings with lace accents. As she carefully rolled each one up her marble white calves, then attached them to the corset’s garters, I took photos from several angles with my hand-held camera. Fantastic!

The final undergarment was a white crinoline petticoat that flared out dramatically over her hips, which would give her all the shape down below that she could possibly want. I took more photos as she modeled it for me. When I was done, I put down the camera. “Ready, Princess?”

Her sweet smile was like a Christmas present. “Ready!”

I led her into my bedroom and she had her first look at the wedding dress she would be modeling.

Her breath caught, she looked at me with wonder, then glided over to it. She ran her fingers gently over the tailored bodice, cut as I preferred in a halter top’s inverted “V.” She bent her head, apparently breathing in the scent of the clean white satin, taking it all in. Her head remained bent to the dress for a long moment. Then, completely out of the blue, she said, “Yellow light.”

Her voice was choked with tears.

I immediately stopped, surprised, and went over to her. Taking her shoulders in my hands, I gently turned her to face me, then lifted up her chin to look in her eyes. She was not sobbing, but the tears were flowing like a river. “What is it?” I said, concerned. “Is it too much like a wedding?” I was suddenly overwhelmed by the thought that maybe, for her, this wasn’t just a photoshoot. What have I done?

But she shook her head, then said in a distressed voice, “No, I’m happy to model a wedding dress for you. I want to. But not this dress.”

I wasn’t tracking her at all. She would look great in that dress! Finally, I managed to say, “Why not?”

She looked at me, eyes streaming. “It’s your dress, isn’t it? The one you were married in, all those years ago.” Reading the truth in my expression – unlike Cam, I don't have a poker face – she added. “I won’t do that to you Liz. I won’t let you do that to yourself.”

I felt like I had been punched. I took three steps back, bumped into my bed, and sat down with a thud. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, somewhat dazed. “It doesn’t matter who wore it before. It’s mine, and I can do what I want with it.”

She just shook her head. "No."

I responded sharply: “Enough. I’m not going there. I need to talk with Cam.”

She walked over, looked down, then carefully – that crinoline was difficult – knelt in front of me. “Cam hasn’t been here since yesterday morning, Liz. I don’t know if I can bring him back. I wore his clothes this morning, but it’s just me now. I’m all you’ve got. All I’ve got. It’ll have to do.”

My anger disappeared. I suppose I was just gaping at her, stupidly. I couldn’t seem to think straight. “I don’t . . . you . . . .” Finally, I managed, “Please. Help me understand. I’m completely lost here.”

She looked at me a moment longer, then held out her hands to me, palms extended.

I took them in my own.

“Ever since you gave me that first bra and panty set, I’ve felt like 'Candi' has grown stronger and stronger. More real. When you started giving me assignments to work on, I would go into 'girl' mode every time I worked on them. It’s gotten harder and harder to go back to being Cam, being the guy you dated, the guy I had always been. Lately, it’s felt like we were fighting each other for the same body. He’s had most of the time – he needed it, for work – but I think ‘Candi’ has had most of the energy.”

I nodded, slowly. That much made sense to me.

But she continued. “When we got here yesterday morning, ‘Cam’ was at the end of his rope. We went into your guest bedroom to change, and he just seemed to let go. When I saw your note this morning, I tried to do what you asked. I really did. I was up for hours. But I couldn’t do it.”

Now I was crying. “Why didn’t you tell me weeks ago? Why didn’t you stop? Cam is my friend!”

“I know that, Liz. But I couldn’t. We couldn’t. Maybe ‘Candi’ started as a game, a way to explore sexual fantasies. I don’t know. But it didn’t stay a game for long. Not for me, anyway.”

I looked at her, helpless.

“But there’s more, and I guess you had better hear the rest.”

I said, “Okay, but will you please get off your knees? You’re killing me!”

She gave me another long look, nodded, and then got to her feet with surprising grace. Shifting her grip so that she was holding my hands rather than the other way around, she helped me get up from the bed.

I was a bit wobbly.

She led me into the living room, avoided the studio, and sat us down in the chairs by the fireplace. She smoothed down her crinolines with both hands.

When I was seated, I sighed. “Let me hear the rest of it.”

“Okay,” she responded. “Here’s the thing. I can’t exactly find ‘Candi’ either.”

I was not sure I could take much more. “That seems to leave you one person short of an identity, doesn’t it?”

She gave me a bit of a smile. “Yes – but also . . . no. I’m me. I know that. I’m not Cam, not the Cam you and I both knew. And I’m not Candi either. I think I can tell you about myself, more or less. Anatomically, I’m male. But in my essence, my core, I’m a woman. It’s not like I’ve lost any memories; I know everyone I’ve ever been. Everyone I’ve tried to be. . . . I don’t think I can go back to being a one-dimensional sex object, fun though it was and much as I enjoyed it. I’m a complete person, even if I’ve been stitched together from some pretty disparate parts. I don’t know who – or what that makes me. But I know it’s me. Does that make any sense?”

I suppose that it does. A crazy kind of sense, but sense. It explains a lot of what I had observed this morning, too. “I think I understand what you’re saying. I’m not sure where it leaves you, though. And, I’m not sure where it leaves us. Not that that’s the most important thing right now, but it does matter to me. A lot.”

“It matters to me, too. That was the hardest thing, this morning. Knowing that I just couldn’t be the people you wanted me to be anymore – I couldn’t be your friend Cam or your submissive Candi. But . . . it’s still me, Liz. I still care about you. I still love you, in every possible way. Can you have a relationship, any relationship, with me?”

We were both crying at this point.

Through my tears, I choked out, “I don’t even know what to call ‘you!’”

She smiled shyly. “Then you can call me ‘Cami.’”

“Cami?” I tried it out, and immediately it felt good. It felt right.

“I like it," I said. I took a deep breath, then another. I dabbed my eyes. Looked at her. Tried to really see the new person who had just emerged. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Cami.” I gave her a smile of my own. “Now suppose you tell me why you got so bent out of shape about my damned wedding dress!”

She leaned forward and said, with quiet earnestness, “Because it’s not fair to you. How long were you married?”

“Ten years,” I responded. “You know that.”

“Right. Ten years of your life. When you wore that dress, when you stood at the altar in that beautiful dress and said your vows, did you mean them? In that moment, did you love Jack?”

This is hard. This isn’t a conversation I had ever had, with anyone. Not with my family. Not with my closest friends. I would never have had this conversation with either Cam or Candi. I don’t want to have it now. But I owe it to Cami. “Yes,” I whispered. “I meant every word. I thought I loved him. Maybe I was just fooling myself. But I thought I did.” I was crying again. Damn, I hate crying!

“Did you work at the marriage?” she pressed. “Did you try your hardest?”

I said, almost angrily, “I take my commitments seriously. You know that, too! I gave it everything, for years . . . .”

My voice, my anger, petered out. I added, sadly, “It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t Jack’s fault. We were just wrong for each other. He wanted me to be something I wasn’t – something you would recognize, I guess. Candi would have been his dream girl.” I looked over at her and said, “Sorry about that.”

She nodded.

“I convinced myself that I could be, and that I wanted to be, everything he wanted. And I tried, honest to God, I tried. But I couldn’t do it.”

I was bawling. Again.

Cami came over and pulled me up into a hug.

I cried and cried.

She was gently running a hand over my back soothingly. “You see, Liz? That’s why I couldn’t wear your dress. Your wedding was real. Your marriage was real. It didn’t work out. Lots of marriages don’t. But that doesn’t make it meaningless. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t sacred. Nothing lasts forever. What you had with Cam, what you had with Candi, those things didn’t last either. They were still beautiful, and real. I hope you will treasure those memories. I know I will.”

I could not stop crying. Who is this woman? She has Cam’s mind, his calm, steady, measuring, non-judgmental presence. She has Candi’s sensuality, her empathy, her grace and mobile features.

But she wasn’t done with me just yet.

“Your marriage was precious. You gave it your heart, your soul, your mind, all of your effort, all of your will. It didn’t work, but you should still honor it, honor the woman you were, the love you gave . . . all that was good and beautiful and sacred. If you had put me in your dress, taken photos and ‘had your way with me’ while I was wearing it, you would have cheapened all of that. You would have betrayed your memories. Done violence to yourself, to your soul. I won’t let you do it, Liz. I can’t.”

I couldn’t say anything. I just gave her the biggest, strongest, hardest hug I’ve ever given anyone, ever, and held it as long as I could. “Thank you,” I finally choked out. “Thank you so much.” I let her go, but held both of her hands and looked into her deep blue eyes. “I didn’t have any idea I was bottling up all of that. Thank you for giving all of that back to me. All of the good parts, the beautiful parts.”

Four years, I thought. It had been four years since I left Jack. It’s time, Liz, I said to myself. Let it go. You did the best you could.

Trying to change the mood, I gestured to the trellis and said, “I guess your photoshoot’s a bust – I don’t happen to have another wedding dress lying around. And I’m not sure where we go from here.”

She looked at me with Candi’s twinkle in her eyes and Cam’s half smile on her face. “I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to pop my cherry?”

~o~O~o~

We had a lovely evening, and yes, I lost my virginity swaddled in a cloud of silk and crinolines. That’s all I plan to reveal, except to say that, while I was submissive as a blushing bride, we didn’t have sex. We made love. It was tender and wonderful and a pure gold memory.

I know you want a sweet, romantic ending. I’m girl enough to want one too. But I don’t think my life will unfold the way that Hollywood would write it. Liz has her own needs, which we both know I can’t meet.

My journey has just started. I’ll have lots of help along the way – Al and Javier, Sarah. Maybe more people I haven't even met yet. And Liz, always Liz. I think we’ve made love for the last time. I expect we have. But I doubt I will ever be closer to anyone else, ever. I – me, Cami – I would not exist except for her intervention in Cam’s dull, boring, go-along-to-get-along life.

I left the next morning, once again wearing Cam’s clothes. They fit poorly, but I can still pass for the man I’ve always been on the outside. I don’t know how I’ll deal with work, or family, over the long haul, but I’m increasingly hopeful that, somehow, I’ll make my own way.

Sing my own song.

– Finis.

If you enjoyed these characters, you might like the four-part sequel, An Aria for Cami. For other stories, check out my author's page.