Archive-name: Changes/paradsl1.txt Archive-author: Donna Baker Archive-title: Paradise Lodge - 1 I pulled down the sun-visor mirror and checked my face one last time in the early morning light. The self-assured image of a successful businesswoman filled the glass. My glossy red lips smiled confidently. One long-lashed blue eye winked, its lavender-shadowed lid shining through my large gold-framed glasses. Every glistening black strand of my short, bold, upswept hairdo was in place. I grabbed my bright blue leather purse and swung my matching five-inch open-toed pumps out of the car. I was dressed to kill for my first day on the job at the Paradise Lodge. There was no one in the parking lot to appreciate the light brown seams on my sheer hose peeking through the tall slit that ran up the back of my tight blue velvet skirt. Alas, the bit of black lacy slip showing at the top of the slit was also wasted! The confident roll of my hips set my large breasts to jiggling and my gold earrings to swaying, kissing my slender neck. My cheeks flushed beneath my heavy makeup as I stepped through the employee's entrance, and my rigid corset thrust my breastflesh outward under my ivory blouse and blue velvet jacket with each excited breath. My heart pounded with anticipation! My semi-swollen penis struggled painfully to repudiate my obvious femininity by bursting loose from its confined position, back between my legs under my blue satin panties. After living as a man for thirty-five years, this was it - my first job as a woman! Once inside, the guard checked my brand new Paradise Lodge ID card, then opened the inner door to admit me. A lovely young redhead dressed in a soft green flannel jumpsuit escorted me to the manager's office. She knocked, then motioned me to enter on my own. A stunning figure in a bejeweled, wasp-waisted evening gown from the 1890s extended her white-gloved arm in greeting. "Margaret Whittaker!" I exclaimed, taking her hand. "You look absolutely fantastic in that gown!" This was the woman who had recruited me. She had arranged everything - my new name, my ID, moving me to Nevada, and handling all the hundreds of excuses, tricks, and lies required to start a new life with a new sex! "Thank you, Donna," she smiled, and curtsied - a difficult feat, since the lace- and pearl-covered garment tightly encased her thighs, narrowed dramatically down to her knees, then flared into a bouquet of ruffles and roses. Her platinum hair was piled high in Gibson girl style. Her blond eyebrows were unplucked, and her perfect complexion was innocent of makeup save for a bit of pink lip blush, true to the style of the era. "But why the costume?" I inquired. "Have a seat, dear, and let's talk," she offered. "I'll have to stand, I'm afraid. How my great-grandmother lived to have children, I'll never know!" I could see what she meant; eighteen inches would more than encompass her waist, dress and all! Only the most severe corset could have reduced her ample figure to those proportions! It made her swollen bosom, veiled in gossamer wisps of lace, flutter with each breath in short, shallow puffs. I sat and crossed my legs, making sure as always that a half-inch of stocking top showed below my skirt hem. I stared at her tiny waist as she talked, wishing that I, too, could wear such a restrictive corset! "I'll tell you about the costume in a moment, dear," she finally replied. "Did you have any trouble getting in?" "Not really," I replied. "The ID card you gave me got me through both gates and the back door, but I was a little surprised; I've seen less security at a military base! They even checked my thumbprint!" "You see, dear, some of our guests are very famous, and their privacy must be well-protected. Not all of them want the world to know they're here!" "I see. When can I start to work?" I asked, anxious to get going. "We'll start your training today, Donna. But there are a few things I need to explain, first," she smiled. "I'm afraid I haven't been completely frank with you about the nature of your position here." "I don't understand. You mean, I won't be supervising the reception desk?" "Oh, you will be in a couple of months, but first you need some training, of course, and you'll have certain other duties in addition," she explained. "Such as?" I was puzzled. "Well, for example," she continued, still smiling pleasantly, "suppose one of our lady guests is tired and irritated after hard day travelling. I might send you up dressed as a sweet little girl. She might spank your fanny and have you suck her off so she can get to sleep. Or, one of our gentleman guests might want to tie you over a chair back, throw up your skirt, and take his pleasure with you. It could be most anything." I was frozen to my chair, my eyes spread wide in shock! "Paradise Lodge is a very special resort, Donna. For example, I'm wearing this costume because I'm going to help a guest act out one of his favorite sexual fantasies in a few minutes." She picked up a typewritten sheet from her desk for reference as she continued her unbelievable story. "He's going to take me to lunch at a cozy gas-lit London pub in 1891. I'll be his fiancee, a most proper and chaste lady. He's going to lure me upstairs to his room, then tie me up, strip off my gown, spank me, play with my cunny until I'm hot, then force me to have sex with him. He will continue to use me until dinnertime, then we'll go back to the pub. I'll be crying with shame as he teases me and forces me to fondle him in the booth. I may try to escape or get help, but the rowdy pub patrons will assist him to keep me. "Afterwards, we'll go back to his rooms where he has hired a photographer. The photographer will be astonished and disgusted by my degradation, but will be well paid to shut up and take his pictures. To my eternal shame, they will record my initiation to the arts of whipping, oral and anal sex, bondage, and whatever other perversions he can imagine. When he next takes me downstairs, I will be so excited by the ordeal I will beg and plead not to be sent from his side, but he will sell me, an utterly ruined woman, for a few pounds to a Chinese pimp and take a new girl - a common streetwalker - up to bed with him for the night." "My God!" I whispered, then aloud, "This is a brothel! A high-class cat house! You hired me to be a whore, not a reception supervisor!" I stood up in indignation. The idea was, to be honest, not without attraction, but she had lied to and cheated me! My immediate response was anger! "I hired you to do both, Donna!" she retorted. "The Paradise Lodge staff is an amazingly diverse mix of sexes, ages, and races, but we all have one trait in common - from the owner to the maids, we serve our guests' sexual needs in whatever manner required. Welcome aboard, Donna!" She held out her gloved hand. I stared at the antique gold jewelry on her kid-wrapped wrist for several long seconds. I found myself strangely fascinated by this odd twist in my already odd life. I should have stalked angrily from the room, but I didn't! In spite of my amazement, I could not help but be aroused by the amazing adventure she had just described, and by the obvious relish with which she related it! "This is crazy!" I looked up at her smiling face. Her friendly, businesslike attitude was so utterly inconsistent with her bizarre offer! "Look, Margaret," I started, "I'm really flattered, and it sounds like fun in a way, but I can't be a prostitute! I'm an engineer who wanted to be a girl so bad I took a job in the hotel business. I'm grateful for all your help, but - a prostitute! I'm sorry, Margaret. I just can't." I hung my head, unable to face her any more, and went to the door. It wouldn't open, at first, so I tried harder. I looked around for the lock. Mrs. Whittaker didn't offer to help me. I turned to ask for assistance. Her friendly smile had been replaced by an evil leer. "I've got you by your sweet, feminine little balls, dear! Think back! You never went with me to the Motor Vehicles office, to the Social Security office, to the banks, or anywhere else. I and my staff arranged everything for you; you merely accepted your new life as we presented it. In fact, while your new papers may look authentic, Miss Donna Baker doesn't officially exist at all! Those IDs are not registered anywhere in the world! The bank accounts are totally fictitious! The only thing we did that was just exactly as you thought was to cut all your ties with your male identity. "Donna," she lifted my chin to look her in the eyes, "if you went out on that desert right now and dropped dead, the world would never miss you!" As her words sank in, I tried frantically in my mind to refute her arguments, but I couldn't! She had taken care of me for the last six months, helping me to make the great transition. My parents were dead, I never saw my divorced wife any more, and I had purposely left behind the friends and acquaintances of my discarded male life. I had gotten rid of all my credit cards and other connections, living by cash to clear the way for the change. After taking evening and weekend training from Mrs. Whittaker for six months, this was the first day of my new life! "What do you want from me?" I asked, timidly. "Just to give it a chance, Donna." She took my hand and stood me up. "I know I am forcing you into this. I know I tricked you cruelly. And make no mistake, the guards will stop you if you try to escape! I backed away in fright, but she grabbed my upper arms and pulled me closer. "Listen to your emotions, Donna!" she insisted. "I've spent too many hours talking with you and listing to you! I know you too well! You are perfect for this job! You want the most outrageous sexual adventure of all time, and this is it! Serving others' pleasure is what you were made for, my dear! You were born to be a courtesan! A woman of pleasure! A whore!" I was shaking my head, confused. There was a grain of truth to her words, of course, but only a grain! How could I do what she asked and keep my self-respect? The self-respect that I so carefully built up over the years through my schoolwork and career? "And if I refuse?" I queried. I had to know. "You won't, dear, if you just give it a chance!" she promised. "You will be earning a great deal of money here, with your salary deposited for you. You're not a slave, or a twenty-dollar-a-trick whore! You will love your work, I guarantee! All you have to do is give it a try! "But if I don't?" I insisted. "You will! But if you don't," she paused, deciding just how to phrase her reply, "I'm afraid there is too just much money involved to let you go. As I said - no one would miss you." The same girl that brought me to Mrs. Whittaker's office now came to escort me to the medical section for a physical. On the way, we passed an amazing assortment of people, every one of them extremely attractive - at least to someone! They all seemed to be on the staff. Out of nine, there was a pair of punk rockers, man and woman, three girls in diaphanous harem costumes, a streetwalker at least 50 years old, a pretty, petite yuppie in a business suit, a gal in a torn safari outfit, and a blond muscle-bound boy in a posing strap. If the sight of these sexy people wasn't enough to arouse me, the redhead was gushing, "I couldn't help but peek at your folder. You look so scrumptious! Are you really and truly hiding a big fat whanger under that pretty blue skirt?" When I nodded, she put her arms through mine and walked with one pert little breast pressed against my shoulder. "Oooh!" she gushed. "You remind me so much of my piano teacher! She was just your age, and always so absolutely clean and pretty! Her makeup and hair were always perfect, and she used the exact same perfume. Jeez! I had such a crush on her! I used to wear tight sweaters and shorts because I could tell she liked me, too. I wanted so badly to kiss her and lick her between her legs I could die! I never had the guts to try though, and she probably didn't either, 'cause I was too young." Before I could respond to her exciting story, we had reached the hotel infirmary. Once she turned me over to the nurses there, I completely forgot the existence of the little secretary! The young nurse in charge stunned me! Her light brown hair and makeup were straight from a 1941 Vogue magazine - a roll of curls framed her face, then fell to her shoulders within a net. Her eyebrows were heavy, her mouth an oval of deep red that matched her short nails. Her white, short-sleeved military-style uniform had a twist - I could see right through it to her period underwear, a heavy white bra, girdle, and seamed white stockings! Her tiny white shoes fit the era with sporty bows above their round toes, and three-inch heels. Even her white garrison cap was transparent. Her perfectly businesslike attitude was more Lauren Bacal than Betty Grabel as she took my purse and instructed me to strip for my physical. She handed the purse to the other nurse, ordering her to help me and giving her a hard slap across her enormous breasts to quicken her pace! In her late twenties, the second nurse was trapped in a fantastic bondage caricature of a nurse's uniform! Her boobs must have measured forty-five inches. The long-sleeved white dress was drawn very tightly over them to her tiny waist. In the shape and place of her vest pockets were two patches of white netting, through which her large brown nipples were thrust! The swollen nubbins were each gripped by a small white enameled clamp, and the chain between them drawn tight. Her companion's slap to them had nearly pulled the clamps loose! Her cap rode on the long straw-blond hair piled above her cute face. Her innocent blue eyes flashed in fear of her bitchy boss between long spindly false lashes. Between her glossy pink lips, a large white ball gag filled her mouth, held in place by a white leather strap. Twin weighty chandeliers of gold and glass sparkled and jingled below her ears. Her skirt floated on several layers of frilly white petticoats, but the whole affair was not quite long enough to cover her! Curly blond fuzz peeked delicately between the halves of her sheer open-crotch white pantyhose! Her feet were hobbled first by white, seven-inch heeled shoes with ballet toes, and further by the white enameled spreader bar that held her slender ankles a good fifteen inches apart! A similar bar clamped her elbows apart behind her back, leaving her slender white hands waving ineffectually at her sides, their incredibly long pink nails further reducing their utility. In spite of her handicaps, she managed to take my garments as I stripped and fold them neatly on a table. She worked under a constant stream of abuse, physical and verbal, from the bitch in the transparent uniform. Her huge breasts shuddered under the blows, and tears rolled continuously from under her blue-shaded lids. The bitch-nurse was very polite to me while mistreating her slave. When I was down to my blue satin bra, corset, and panties, she stopped me and introduced herself. "Welcome to Paradise Lodge, Donna, my name is Helene," she said, rhyming her name with "remain." Her expression was neutrally pleasant; she hadn't smiled, yet. "I'm the head nurse, and this is Beatrice. She's in training. The doctor will be in later to examine you. Has Mrs. Whittaker explained our medical procedures?" "No," I answered, sitting down beside her on a padded bench. I was confident and cool in my blue undies. Beatrice, the slave-nurse, stood before us ready for more abuse. She shuffled her weight on her obviously painful shoes, which generated a soft, steady tinkling from her earrings. "Our greatest fear here is sexually-transmitted diseases. That's another reason for our tight security. No one enters the premises without a thorough examination. When medical security is breached, we have to shut down all operations immediately until everyone can be tested, again." "You are not cleared, yet," she continued. "If you so much as come close to touching the face or genitals of anyone in this building, that person will have to stop work and be re-examined. If you run amok and cause a serious breach of medical security, you will be fired. Do you understand?" My attention had been wandering to look at Beatrice; I could now tell that she had a dildo strapped into her fanny. Helene's last remark brought me around with a start! "Yes," I responded, suddenly vulnerable, again, and wishing I were dressed. "Good," she stood, and I found myself bathing in the sparkling, warm rays of a sunny smile from Miss Bitch, herself! "Let's get on with the tests!" For the next hour, she was all smiles and light while she sampled and tested everything testable in and on my body from my blood pressure to my urine. During the process, I was gradually stripped completely. Obviously familiar with the sensitivities of boys like me, she saved my bra and breast prostheses for last, even after my panties and harness! I could tuck my penis back between my legs; I couldn't fake my flat chest. Helene motioned Beatrice to stand right between us, facing me. She hurled a few more insults to the poor girl, and reached around to slap her boobs, again. Her lovely, innocent face plainly revealed that the pain and humiliation were very real - and very welcome! My prick finally betrayed me, and stood stiffly before my loins to share the sight of this woman's intense arousal! Helene reached into a cabinet for a white studded leather collar and fastened it around Beatrice's pretty neck with a padlock. She similarly affixed the end of the silvery steel chain to the examination table, then removed the spreader bar between Beatrice's arms. She extracted the white ball gag with a jerk. In a blinding flash of fury, Beatrice spun around to slap Helene! Screaming a torrent of foul invective, she grabbed at her tormenter. Expertly, Helene took her still-hobbled opponent about the waist and wrestled her back until the pull of her collar bent her body over flat! Helene pinned her arms behind her back, and proceeded to spank her exposed bottom until she was panting in fatigue, and Beatrice was blubbering her apologies, her ass cherry red! "Stand up, bitch!" she shouted, and threw Beatrice towards the bench. The girl fell, of course, and the white ankle spreader gave her a great deal of difficulty in regaining her feet. Helene stepped up, grabbed the chain between her nipple clamps, and yanked them off in a single motion. Beatrice screamed and threw her sharp-nailed little fists up, but did not strike her tormenter. Deftly, Helene reattached the clamps to the poor girl's labia! "That will teach you to turn on me like that, you little whore," fumed Helene, as the loop of chain dangled between Beatrice's white-sheathed legs. "Now, get to work on Donna!" Through her sobs, Beatrice started asking me questions about my medical history. She donned a stethoscope and listened to my chest. It finally dawned on me. Beatrice was the doctor! With frequent reminders from Helene, generally administered along with slaps to her buttocks and breasts, Beatrice performed a most thorough examination. During the process, she explained that hotel personnel were not always treated to such a display when they visited the infirmary, but that guests were. She and Helene were trying out their new routine on the staff, a common practice! With all the explanations, however, she never let up. Helene was still in charge, and Beatrice still wore her clamps! When she finished, Helene restored the gag and elbow spreader, then removed the collar. Beatrice was then prodded to help me get back into my breasts, bra, corset, panties, hose, and shoes. Helene wouldn't let me put my blue velvet suit back on. She guaranteed me that I would never miss it, but it hurt to leave my very favorite outfit behind! I did manage to snatch my necklaces, though. The gold and blue chains looked quite appealing against my bra! I marched proudly to the next station beside Helene, with a confident stride, arrayed only in my undies and jewelry! The next chore was a complete makeover. In my previous, bi-modal existence, it had never been possible to get a professional makeup job. I'd done pretty well by myself, but to Robert of Paradise Lodge I owe an eternal debt; he took my pleasant countenance and somehow made me radiantly beautiful! Although he was an exceptionally warm, empathetic, and caring man, Robert displayed not the tiniest hint of homosexuality. He was in his late twenties, about six-one, with a solid, athletic build. His black hair was progressively styled, but without undue flash, neatly framing his rectangular, clean-shaven face. We talked as he started on my hair. His rich baritone voice, commanding presence, and charming manner reduced my insides to jelly in two minutes flat. I'm a big, take-charge gal, but I nearly melted in the grip of his strong hands as he helped me up into the high beautician's chair. He left me feeling positively frail! With surprising sensitivity, he replaced my eyeglasses with a pair of blue plastic beach blinders before removing my wig. The booth was surrounded by mirrors - I'd have been terribly self-conscious watching him watch my thinning, decidedly masculine hairline. (Thank God I'd taken my electrolysis treatments years ago. I couldn't have taken him shaving my face!) To my utter astonishment, he quickly proceeded to shave my head absolutely bald, then replaced my glasses! Somehow, in the bizarre vulnerability of a small, bespectacled, heavily made-up face set on a naked dome, I looked more feminine now than when I came in! Why in the world had I never tried this before? For the first time in my life, (a turn of phrase frequently appropriate over the next few weeks) I could delight in trying on wigs without the irritating intrusion of the "old" me into the scene! I say "I" tried on wigs - Robert ran the show surely and skillfully! He was very careful, checking for cap fit and length, and he paid particular attention to the color match with my skin and eyes. He worked each one with his tools, some briefly and some he almost completely restyled. When satisfied, he tilted my chair back and proceeded to cleanse away every nonessential atom from my neck up! I shone like a new car! For the next hour, I had little notion of what he was doing. Starting on my eyebrows with fluids and tweezers, and ending with a heavy squirt of candy-sweet perfume, he worked an endless sequence of miracles on my face. I never did get a good look at the manicurist who managed to do my nails while Robert worked! When he finally whirled me around to face the mirror, I was genuinely confused! Only those fortunate women who have undergone a complete, professional makeover will believe me when I say it took five seconds before I realized that the darkly sensuous, almost sinister, creature in the glass was my own reflection! My hair was black, an almost glossy smooth helmet that framed my features with razor-precise bangs, sweeping forward to a point under each ear. Low-set, sharply-defined black arcing brows bounded my deep, velvety purple lids. Their color was blended downward to the shade of dusty coal behind the almost impenetrable stockade of my long, curling lashes. My lower lashes were also thickened, with the merest suggestion of violet surrounding the thin black band of liner. My skin is naturally a dusky beige, but my makeup was one shade darker than that. There was just a hint of purplish blue in the dark, burnt red on my cheeks and satin-finished lips that made my complexion seem almost Latin. My cheeks were artfully hollowed; I even detected subtle traces of shading on my septum and chin. My face could have been drafted and airbrushed, it was so perfect! I toyed with it for a while, mugging in the mirror. As I warmed up to it, I found that a sultry, sophisticated glare worked wonders! A hint of a smile was magically transformed into an evil smirk! I was a modern-day vamp - forbidden sex incarnate! Just let an unsuspecting male fall into my clutches! He would sink forever into the hellfires raging behind my penetrating black eyes! I could hardly wait to get to the fitting room, now! I had been so proud of my blue undies and necklace. How utterly vapid they seemed in my newfound wickedness! During the next four hours, with only a short break for yogurt for lunch, the coercive nature of my employment was completely forgotten in an intoxicating world of satin, lace, and silk! I was helped by the sweetest dear I ever met at the lodge, Wilma. Wilma was fifty-five or so, with a cute face, though she had never been a stunning beauty. She had not fought the advance of the years, but wore them gracefully. There were many single gray strands in her thick smooth cap of short black hair. Her dimpled cheeks and rich, full mouth were particularly attractive. Her makeup was very light except for the thick, frosty pink gloss bordered with a dusky rose pencil line that colored her lips. Whenever she talked, my eyes were fixed on them. Only Helene's horrible threats kept me from covering Wilma's inviting mouth with kisses! Wilma also had a marvelous figure! Her breasts were very large, and were set off beautifully by her soft, slick coral and white nylon dress. It draped snugly over her bosom, then fell loosely from her belt to swish around her shapely legs. I'd have paid erotic attention to her gorgeous bustline sooner and more often, were it not for the cheerful, almost motherly, warmth she exuded! We spent the first hour with shoes. She measured my foot from all angles, then had me try dozens of pairs of sandals, pumps, boots, and bizarre creations that defied description. She took a series of photographs of my legs with a range of heel heights from flat to seven inches. The seven-incher had no sole as such - just a reinforced ballet toe like Beatrice had worn! She had me walk in all of them, while she took a constant stream of notes on her clipboard. With my legs in order, Wilma worked her way up. She produced an improbable contraption that looked rather like a pair of flesh-colored rubber panties. I pulled down my pretty blue satin pants. By leaning on Wilma's shoulders, I managed to wiggle my fanny into the surprisingly weighty, and incredibly tight fitting, garment. Its function became clear as she helped me smooth it into place. It was a combination penis-restraint, vulva imitation, and fanny and hip pad! "We call this one the `rubber duckie,'" she joked. "It's a bitch because you have to take it off to pee-pee. It looks real enough to wear under a negligee, but it's best with dresses and pants. There is another model with an open crotch when you want to be a little more honest." We giggled together! She reached playfully for the remarkably realistic crotch. "Put a little K-Y in here, and some old fart can diddle you under your skirt until you pretend to come! He'll never know the difference!" We both laughed, but I was thoroughly intrigued by the thought; I could feel her finger through the rubber against my throbbing prick! I wouldn't necessarily have to pretend to come! After numerous measurements and inquiries as to my experience and taste, she next brought out a stout black satin corset and proceeded to lace me up. Repeatedly, she encouraged me to blow out my breath, suck in my tummy, and bear up under the strain as she took in the slack. Just when I thought I'd never breathe again, she shouted in triumph and tied off the laces! I had been very proud of my twenty-eight inch waist when I arrived. I generally had a full-breasted figure, and had considered my waist quite attractive! I gasped, and Wilma giggled as she showed me the tape - twenty three inches! She turned a panel to reveal a full-length mirror. My eyes were bulging out, and my forced shallow breathing was barely keeping me alive, but my God! I had never looked so good as now! My new, wide hips made a tremendous difference to my figure by reducing my shoulders in proportion. I was ten times more feminine than when I walked in! "Imagine that in a clingy black evening gown," she smiled, and I hugged the delightful woman in rapture! With my waist firmly bound, Wilma helped me work through a long succession of different breast prostheses and bras to hold them. We tried so many lovely things while she maintained a stream of complements, advice, and racy remarks! The tight corset had pushed up my own breast-flesh to respectable proportions. I got a big kick out of my pretty, feminine figure, seeing and feeling my very own nipples through a transparent black tricot B-cup bra! We also tried some outrageously large, and amazingly convincing, bazooms that had me drooling in the mirror. Wilma even showed me how to adjust my posture and my walk in order to wear them gracefully! My favorites, though, were a set of D-cup rubber and silicone falsies. She took great pains to match my skin color. Wilma helped me into a slinky black satin half-bra to take their weight, then attached their edges to my chest with spirit gum. A little expert touch-up with non- smear body makeup completely hid the seams. She told me how to take care of them. They were tricky little devils, with a concealed wick for handling perspiration, and even a way to make the nipples swell or relax! I had never imagined it possible! She let me alone for a while. I fondled and petted my new breasts for long minutes in amazement, staring at the deep decollete beneath my chin! Without a doubt, I could have sex in this outfit right now, and my partner would never know my breasts to be false! I was in rapture, when the room started spinning dizzily about my head! I sat down hard on the bench, almost blacking out completely before Wilma's calming voice brought me around. "Relax, honey," she cooed. "Breathe very slowly, but as deeply as you can." "Oh my," I apologized. "I can't believe I actually fainted! I've never done that before in my life!" "You've never worn a corset that tight before, silly!" she laughed in relief. I was falling head over heels in love with this marvelous woman! Behind her smile, she was almost crying, she was so glad that I was OK! What a gem! "You're all through, anyway, Donna. Sit here for a moment and get your breath, then you'll have to get dressed and go to dinner." In panic, I clutched my pretty new breasts with one arm and her with the other. "Oh, Please, Wilma," I begged, "don't make me take them off!" "That's why I saved them for last, honey!" she replied. "I knew you'd love them! Keep them on. Just be sure to take them off for at least sixteen hours out of forty-eight, or you'll develop skin problems. I'll have the spirit gum and things sent to your room." I squealed in delight and tried to kiss her, an attempt she fended off sweetly. "Let's find you something to wear, honey," she said, picking up her measuring tape. "I've only got half an hour left to measure you, dress you, and get you over to dinner." She recorded the distances between and around every conceivable point on my newfound figure, then headed for the wardrobe room. "Can I look for myself?" I asked, following her. "Some other time, Donna," she smiled. "You can follow me, but I'd better pick out your things. There isn't time to dawdle!" We stepped into the next room, and for the umpteenth time today, I was flabbergasted. "This is the big barn I saw from outside!" I exclaimed. I was in a huge cavern of a room, at least a hundred feet long, with a ceiling three stories above me, and the entire space was filled with chain- driven laundry racks bearing every conceivable kind of costume, male and female! Some racks carried massive loads of heavy, voluminous gowns. Others seemed to be holding little more than odd bits of string and patches. They seemed to be grouped more or less by function and color, but there were so many that the pattern wasn't obvious to me! "This is mostly for clothes," she explained, starting a rack of dresses humming into motion. "The shoes, foundations, and accessories are in the basement. I pulled out a pile of things close to your size while you were in the infirmary, so I wouldn't have to come back here for bras and corsets. "Ah, here's the right area," she chirped, slowing the rack to inspect a long line of slithery black dresses more closely. "Just the one!" We went back to the fitting room, where I slipped the divinely soft silk dress up over my enlarged hips and slithered my arms into the long sleeves. The midriff was done in stiff, horizontally-pleated folds that perfectly complemented my tiny new waist! The top of the midriff pointed up in a shallow inverted "V" between my breasts, where it met the neckline plunging down between soft, wide, pointed lapels. The sleeves were puffed slightly at the shoulder. Wilma replaced its thick shoulder pads with thin stiff ones before zipping me up. Wow! The bodice was rather full, but it was stretched tightly enough over the bare tips of my large breasts to make it perfectly clear they were not covered by a bra. I reached in to operate the little devices that made my nipples swell! It was electrifying to see the stunning valley between my swollen breasts, each with a perky little point begging to be kissed! I closed my eyes to keep from fainting, again. "Turn around and look at the back," Wilma prompted. I spun around. "Oh, Wilma!" I gasped. "I've never been so happy in my life!" My obviously un-pantied ass jutted out like a shelf in the rear, the soft dress falling in two distinct cascades, clearly showing the crack between the round cheeks! I hurried across the room, then walked back slowly, watching myself approach the mirror. Only in my wildest dreams had I pictured myself as such an tantalizing, downright sexy, woman! Not the least disturbing trace of masculinity remained. I was perfect at last! Before I knew it, I was blubbering on Wilma's shoulder. "Thank you, Wilma, thank you, thank you," was all I could manage between my sobs. She patted my shoulder gently and cried with me. "There, there, honey," she soothed me with an emotion-choked voice. "You know, I don't often get the chance to make this big a change in one of my girls. It's almost as rewarding for me as for you!" We blubbered at each other for a while, then started the first day of my training. For ten whole weeks, I walked, talked, ate, and even slept as a vibrant, attractive woman! I learned to be a wholesome maiden, a flirty coquette, and a domineering mistress. I learned to take care of my feminine prostheses as if they were a part of my own body. I learned from the resident experts how to make up and dress myself to the best advantage. I even stopped envying real girls. After all, how many real women had the opportunity to add or subtract six inches from their hips or bust as the occasion required? Almost before I knew it, I was ready to serve our guests! --