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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?”
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.