Life was good.
But the stress of being a high paid copywriter in LA took its toll. One day I needed help. And I got it. You might say I got it good. Things changed. Oh, how they changed.
Now I drive a used Hyundai and live in a sleazy area of North Hollywood frequented by pimps and hookers. I'm stuffed into a tiny studio apartment?a girl's apartment, all pink and frilly and silky and lacy and dripping in femininity. And <em>I'm</em> the girl, honey?the kind of girl I used to pick up?a mini-skirted big-boobed air-headed blonde bimbo slut built for fucking. Only, I'm a sissy girl?a silly submissive sissy bimbo girlie slut.
My salary is less than half of what it used to be and I have to work two jobs just to make ends meet. Humiliating low-paying sissy girlie jobs like maid and receptionist. But there is this bonus plan?well, you'll see when you read my story?a girl's dreams really can come true, or turn into a nightmare. Guess it depends on how you look at it.
I'm sitting here on a soft feather bed in a pale-blue transparent nightie in my tiny girlie studio apartment in North Hollywood squeezing and hugging a pink teddy bear. He's such a cutie! If you don't have one you must get one, girl. You will love squeezing him too, and holding him to your big breasts. Mine weren't real at first, honey, but they are now?40DD implants, baby, with three-quarter-inch pierced and ringed nipples and miles of cleavage to die for. I just love looking down my suckable squeezable breasts and nipples. Breasts, boobs, hooters?doesn't that sound yummy, girl? It's what you and I have always wanted honey, and now you'll soon have them too. Real ones, honey.
It all started about a month ago, though it seems like ages. It was a Monday evening after work as I recall?things are fuzzy now.
Maybe it would have been better if I could have kept my eyes shut, but if you're anything like me, you couldn't have resisted either. Especially not if you were lying comfortably on a leather lounge chair in front of one of God's very own angels about to turn your life on its head.
I cracked my eyes open in a narrow slit, enough to see, but not enough for her to notice. Her name was Ms. Diamond? Madam Diamond, PhD, her card said?'Intelligent hypnotherapy for a troubled world.' She came highly recommended as an expert on treating stress and anxiety and was on our company's insurance plan. That should have been a clue right there. The rumor was that she has helped several high-profile Hollywood celebrities deal with stress. And honey, you know how they like to name drop in Hollywood.
She leaned toward me, her porcelain face framed with shiny red hair cascading in waves past her shoulders. Everything about her reminded me of jewels. Her pale-blue amethyst eyes were as deep and mysterious as clear mountain pools intent on enticing me to plunge into them. Her red lips, glossy and sparkling like plump rubies, moved sensuously across the white pearls of her teeth. Her voice emitted sounds like they were passing through clear crystal with words as colorful and distinct as a rainbow of light through a prism.
'Donald, are you listening? Have you heard a word I've said?'
My eyes closed again tightly, but not before capturing a perfect image of her to my brain like a vacation snapshot to drool over later.
'Sorry,' I said. 'I must have been daydreaming.'
'You need to focus for this to work, Donald. Focus on my words.'
'Of course, focus. I'm focusing.'
'I was asking about your day, how it went.'
My day?God, what an array of images and senses that evoked: the Monday morning rancid smell of exhaust from the LA traffic on sunset, the red faces of fist-waving drivers, spilling coffee on my lap trying to get through grid-locked intersections in my Roadster, trying to make left turns against solid streams of traffic where there were no turn signals, narrowly avoiding a fender bender with a Hummer at Highland. Putting up with the molasses-like rush hour traffic, running late, calling on the cell phone, getting nothing but busy signals from the clogged phone system. Then my boss, Steve yelling at me for being late?the jerk. The nerve of that guy, saying, 'Do you think my Dad spent a lifetime building up this agency just so you could come in whenever you feel like it?'
Sure, he should talk?the bastard. He doesn't really have to work for a living like I do. And he doesn't have to put up with the copier jamming on the Jensen report, or his PC freezing half the time in a blue screen of death. No, he comes to work in a chauffeur-driven limousine having his morning coffee and reading the LA Times. A man of privilege, like I deserve to be.
Call it another typical day for a harried, hurried, underappreciated copywriter at Johnson, Jensen, and Jackson Advertising.
I guess that's why I was sitting there reclining on the soft chair, floating in another world, listening to an angel.
'Fine,' I said, taking a deep breath, no doubt making it obvious that everything was not fine. Otherwise, why was I there?
'Are you angry, Donald?'
'No, I'm okay,' I said. 'It's just been a long day.'
She picked up a form and looked at it, frowning. 'I've been wondering about this stress inventory form. Your stress level pegged the meter you know. Do you remember what you said on this?'
The form?yes. It seemed so long ago that I filled it out, though it was only the week before in her outer office. I must have checked the ?yes' box for every stress listed. With a stress score over 300 I definitely pegged the meter.
'I'm not sure,' I said. 'What do you mean?'
'Remember, on the question about what you would change about your life, you said that girls had it easier, that all they had to do was smile, look pretty, act dumb, and find a husband.'
'I didn't really mean?not like that,' I said, stammering, feeling a flash of heat in my cheeks.
'I think maybe you did, that your subconscious was speaking, and that that may be the key to helping you lower your stress.'
'I don't see how?'
'But it does,' she continued, reaching out and putting her hands on my ankles like she was steering me. Her touch sent an electric wave of pleasure up my legs all the way to my head that made me smile and sink more deeply into the chair. 'If we tap into your feminine side and bring that out it may have a calming effect, and bring you more into balance with yourself and the world around you. It's probably been there in your subconscious all along?just suppressed. And suppressing things builds up tension and leads to anxiety, don't you think?'
'Well I?'
'Some psychologists say that is the root of all psychological problems?a gap between the way we perceive ourselves subconsciously and the way we behave consciously. You may be keeping hidden secrets buried in your subconscious, Donald, the way you perceive yourself, and these hidden secrets make you feel anxious, fearful, insecure, even guilty. It is time to bring those secrets into the open, to confess, to close the gap between your subconscious fantasy and your conscious reality, don't you agree?'
To say I felt puzzled and confused then would be an understatement. She released her touch and I wanted it back. 'I guess so,' I said. 'Maybe.'
'Maybe a flight of fancy into a new world, a stress-free world, would do you good, Donald.'
'I, uh?'
'Do you want to continue to feel anxious and stressed out?'
'Uh, no?'
'Of course not. You would rather feel serene, calm, tranquil, confident and happy with who you are wouldn't you?'
'Yes, I would,' I said.
'Then there must be a change, because that is not where you are now. Isn't that right?'
'Yes?I mean, no?I'm not there.'
'Did you know that in ancient times men often dressed up like women in order to change the forces of nature or to ward off evil spirits?'
Somewhere in the recesses of my brain I had stored something like that, but I couldn't recall. 'I've heard that, I think.'
'You have the equivalent of an evil spirit possessing you now, and you certainly could use a change, couldn't you?'
'Y-yes,' I said. 'I guess so.'
'Of course you could,' she said firmly. 'It's perfectly natural to want to change your luck. Many men have worn the garments of women to bring forth rain upon a fertile earth. Perhaps you have done it too for your own reasons. Think back, Donald. When you were little did you ever dress up in girl's clothes, maybe your mothers, or sisters clothes?'
I squirmed in the chair. How could she know about this? I told her about the time I had put on my mother's transparent yellow nightgown and wore her black high-heel shoes. I had even tried to put on her red lipstick and rouge?slopped on would probably be a better way to put it. Even though I looked like Bozo's cross-dressing kid brother, it felt great. Had I suppressed this in my attempt to be macho?
'I thought so,' she said. 'I'll bet you did this more than once, didn't you?'
I recalled times when I was home alone or at a hotel and I had?well, let's just say I had experimented. 'Yes, a few?'
'And I'll bet you felt great every time you did it, didn't you?'
I remembered those times with fondness and some apprehension too. Yes, there were many of them. Secretly trying on slips, hose, blouses, shoes, even bras and panties. And yes, it did feel delicious.
